THE  INNER  LAW 


WILL  N.   HARBEN 


The   Last    Work 
of  the  Great  Southerner 

E'  .ST  month  there  went  to  final 
sleep  one  of  the   sweetest, 
rarest  and  most  beautiful  mind's 
that  the  South  has  ever  given  us. 

In  every  part  of  the  country 
men  and  women  sighed  to  think 
that  from  the  pen  of  that  simple 
and  lovely  soul,  Will  N.  Harben, 
no  more  novels  would  come  for 
their  delight  and  their  inspira 
tion. 

To  these  it  will  be  good  news 
to  hear  that  in  the  last  year  he 
wrote  the  richest,  the  ripest,  the 
most  dramatic  of  all  his  noVels. 
The  South  he  knew  and  loved 
so  well  glows  in  this  story. 

But  in ~  this  book  he  has 
touched  a  subject  that  he  has 
never  treated  before.  This  is  a 
tale  of  a  woman  who  could  not 
be  mentioned  in  the  Southern 
town  in  which  she  lived  and  of. 
the  wreck  and  devastation  she 
brought  into  the  lives  of  two 
innocent  people. 

It  is  a  fearless  and  daring 
story.  But  so  tactful  is  his 
touch,  so  lofty  is  his  idea,  that 
this  book  which  in  some  other 
man's  hands  would  be  danger 
ous  is  a  fine  contribution  to  our 
American  literature. 

TheCOTTAGEofDELIOHT 

By  Will  N.  Harben 


• 


GO, 

/     I 

*  &*?;/. 


COTTAGE  OF  DELIGHT 


THE    I 


THE  COTTAGE  OF  DEI.UM1T.  lly  Will  X. 
Harben.  With  frontispiece.  Harper  & 
Brothers. 

THAT  particular  and  somewhat  melan 
choly  interest  which  always  attaches 
itself  to  a  posthumous  novel  gives  this 
new  book  by  Will  N.  Harben  an  added 
claim  to  one's  attention.  The  scene  is  laid 
principally  in  Mr.  Harben' s  own  familiar 
State  of  Georgia,  but  shifts  temporarily, 
first  to  Tennessee  and  later  to  New  York, 
returning-  after  each  divergence  to  Ridge- 
ville,  the  Georgia  town  which  was  the 
birthplace  and  residence  of  the  hero  and 
principal  character,  John  Trott.  There 
he  lived  with  his  widowed  mother,  who 
also  shared  her  house  with  a  friend,  Miss 
Jane  Holder,  and  the  latter's  orphan  niece, 
Dora,  a  nine-year-old  child,  who  acted  as 
maid-of-all-work  and  g-eneral  drudge.  I'.oth 
John's  mother  and  her  friend,  Miss  Holder, 
were  notoriously  disreputable  women,  but 
John,  though  nearly  20.  was  not  aware 
of  the  fact,  and  paid  little  or  no  attention 
to  ihrir  behavior  even  when  they  came 
home  drunk,  being-  completely  absorbed  in 
his  work — he  was  an  expert  mason — and 
in  the  calculations  and  estimates  he  made 
for  his  employer  and  good  friend,  Sam 
t'avanuugh.  It.  never  even  occurred  to 
lilm  to  wonder  why  it  was  that  "  he  had 
no  acquaintances  among*  the  women  of  the 
town,  and  few  among  the  men,"  while  the 
women  who  came  from  other  cities  to  see 
liis  mother  and  Jane  Holder  were  not  of  a 
type  which  appealed  to  his  very  idealistic 
temperament.  Though  he  did  sometimes 
find  the  squalor  and  general  disorder  of  his 
home  vaguely  uncomfortable,  he  was  fairly 
contented  until  it  so  chanced  that  Cav- 
•naugh  took  him  to  Tennessee,  there  to 
work  with  him  on  a,  new  county  court 
Itouse. 

They  hoarded  with  a  farmer,  "Richard 
,iumi  cue  preLuiy  written,  as  is  tne  descrip 
tion  of  their  coming  to  the  little  "  Cottage 
of  Delight,"  they  were  destined  to  inhabit 
for  so  short  a  time. 


T  TT>T)  A  i:>  V 


BOOKS   BY 
WILL    N.    HARBEN 

THE  INNER  LAW  THE  GEORGIANS 

THE  NEW  CLARION  POLE  BAKER 

THE  DESIRED  WOMAN  ANN  BOTD 

PAUL  RUNDEL  MAM'  LINDA 

WESTERFELT  GILBERT  NEAL 

ABNER  DANIEL  THE  REDEMPTION  OF 
DIXIE  HART  KENNETH  GALT 

THE  SUBSTITUTE  JANE  DAWSON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


"LET  LOOSE,  OR  I'LL  KISS  YOU!" 


THE 

INNER   LAW 


B  Hovel 

BY 

WILL  N.   HARBEN 

AUTHOR  OF 
"ABNER  DANIEL"  "ANN  BOYD" 

"THBNBW  CLARION"  BTC. 


HARPER  &•  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


LIBRARY 
U&IVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


THE  INNER  LAW 

Copyright,  191 S,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1915 

L-P 


PART   I 


THE  INNER  LAW 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  lawn  of  the  old  residence  sloped  down  on  its  two 
sides  to  boundary  fences,  and  in  front  to  the  broad 
avenue  along  which  the  electric  cars  sped  with  clanging 
bells,  and  various  other  vehicles  of  pleasure  or  traffic 
moved  to  and  fro  on  tires  of  rubber  or  metal.  The 
homestead  was  almost  in  the  business  section  of  Atlanta, 
the  more  modern  houses  having  been  built  farther  out 
on  new  streets  and  boulevards.  Indeed,  the  owner,  old 
Gilbert  Crofton,  was  possessed  of  no  finer  sentiment  than 
the  retention  as  a  home  of  the  house  his  father  had  built 
many  years  before  the  Civil  War  and  in  which  he  had  spent 
his  boyhood.  A  considerable  sum  had  been  offered  for 
the  property  by  enterprising  builders  of  fashionable 
hotels,  but  although  Gilbert's  two  sons  and  daughter  had 
often  advised  him  to  sell  the  place  and  build  a  house  else 
where,  he  had  always  stoutly  refused. 

Old  Gilbert  was  in  no  need  of  the  money  that  the 
property  would  bring.  He  was  rich,  owning  lands,  im 
proved  and  unimproved,  and  stocks  and  bonds  in  which 
he  dealt  constantly.  He  was  the  president  of  several 
banks  in  the  smaller  cities  of  the  State.  He  was  a  money 
lender  and  speculator;  he  advanced  cash  to  planters, 
taking  their  crops  as  security.  He  encouraged  the  build 
ing  of  cotton-factories  in  various  towns,  that  he  might 

3 


THE    INNER   LAW 

get  in  on  "the  ground  floor,"  and  that  his  banks  might 
handle  the  funds. 

For  his  eldest  son,  Henry,  he  had  lost  all  respect  and 
affection.  Henry,  while  only  thirty  years  of  age,  was  the 
most  conspicuous  ne'er-do-well  in  Atlanta.  He  was  a 
gambler,  a  roue,  and  a  notoriously  bad  lot  in  general  who 
was  admitted  to  the  best  social  circles  only  in  deference 
to  his  young  sister  Milicent,  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  girl,  and 
to  the  fact  that  the  Croftons  belonged  to  a  very  old 
family  of  worth  and  distinction. 

For  his  younger  son,  Carter,  Gilbert  had  an  incon 
gruous  sort  of  affection  and  was  quite  proud  of  him. 
Carter  had  just  been  graduated  with  high  honors  at 
Harvard.  He  had  been  a  good  student,  had  spent  very 
little  money  compared  to  Henry's  constant  demands,  and 
some  of  his  poems  and  essays  had  been  published  in  the 
Atlanta  papers,  elicting  high  praise  from  certain  scholars, 
clergymen,  and  teachers  whose  judgment  old  Gilbert  re 
spected  as  understanding  their  line  as  well  as  he  under 
stood  his.  As  to  Milicent,  the  old  man  was  seemingly 
indifferent.  Since  her  mother's  death  three  years  ago 
she  had  managed  the  affairs  of  the  house  well  enough, 
but  was  that  any  more  than  should  be  expected  of  a  young 
woman  who  had  been  properly  trained  by  a  mother  of 
taste  and  refinement? 

To-day,  the  fifteenth  of  May,  Milicent,  aided  by  Lar- 
kin,  a  colored  man-servant,  was  arranging  tables  and  seats 
in  the  garden  behind  the  house.  She  was  giving  a  party 
to  the  children  of  certain  friends  of  hers  in  the  city,  and 
about  three  o'clock  the  little  boys  and  girls  began  to  ar 
rive.  Some  came  in  carriages,  under  the  care  of  servants, 
and  others,  from  the  immediate  neighborhood,  came  afoot. 
All  were  beautifully  dressed  in  spotless  white,  and  showed 
by  their  deportment  that  they  were  well  brought  up. 

Milicent,  a  tall,  slender  blonde,  who  was  neither  pretty 
nor  plairj,  wa,s  radiantly  cordial  as  she  met  them  at  the 

4 


THE   INNER   LAW 

top  of  the  veranda  steps,  kissed  them,  and  bade  them 
make  free  with  the  whole  house  and  grounds.  She  led 
them  in  their  games  on  the  grass.  She  played  the  piano, 
conducted  their  singing  of  familiar  plantation  melodies, 
and  directed  their  dancing  in  the  old-fashioned  drawing- 
room. 

Meanwhile  her  brother  Carter  had  descended  from  his 
room,  where  he  had  been  writing  and  reading  all  day,  and 
had  thrown  himself  into  a  swinging  seat  at  the  end  of 
the  veranda.  He  lighted  a  cigar — it  was  generally  a  pipe 
— and  as  he  smoked  he  pushed  himself  back  and  forth, 
frowning  good-naturedly  as  the  boys  and  girls  romped 
noisily  through  the  hall  and  down  the  steps.  He  was 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  six  feet  in  height,  built  well 
enough  to  have  been  an  athlete  rather  than  a  poet;  he 
had  light-brown  hair,  which  he  wore  slightly  longer  than 
the  conventional  style,  and  fine  blue  eyes,  behind  the 
thick  lashes  of  which  the  dream  shadows  of  youth  seemed 
to  lie  when  his  poetic  moods  were  on  him. 

Once,  while  the  children  were  in  the  garden  behind  the 
house,  Milicent  approached  him  with  a  smile. 

* '  Come  play  with  them !"  she  urged.  ' '  They  would  feel 
so  complimented  to  have  you  join  them.  Really,  they 
stand  a  little  in  awe  of  you." 

"Not  to-day,  thank  you,"  he  laughed.  "I'm  about  as 
close  to  the  ruffians  now  as  I  care  to  be.  Listen  to  that 
war-whoop!  My!  haven't  they  lungs?  What  time  will 
they  go  away?" 

"I'll  feed  them  very  soon,"  she  smiled.  "Come  back 
and  have  some  of  the  ice-cream.  It  is  very  good;  so  is 
the  punch.  Come  help  us  pass  it  around." 

"No,  I'll  leave  that  to  you  and  the  servants,"  he  said. 
"This  is  good  enough  for  me.  It  is  hot  back  there  in  the 
sun." 

She  was  turning  away,  but  paused  to  ask,  "Was  Uncle 
Tom  up-stairs  when  you  came  down?" 

5 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Yes;  I  think  the  children  waked  him  from  his  nap. 
I  heard  him  sighing.  He  has  already  had  enough  of  the 
city,  I  am  sure.  Atlanta  is  no  place  for  a  man  of  his 
temperament  who  has  always  lived  in  the  country.  He 
is  like  a  fish  out  of  water.  Say,  sis,  I  like  to  talk  to  him. 
He  has  read  a  great  deal,  and  is  a  philosopher  of  no  small 
attainments.  He  has  already  given  me  a  helpful  idea." 

"What  was  it?"  Milicent  caught  the  chain  of  the 
swing,  steadied  it,  and  leaned  forward. 

"Why,  he  says  the  constant  social  whirl  here  will  kill 
all  my  best  impulses.  He  thinks  I'd  write  twice  as  well 
if  I'd  cut  it  all  out  and  settle  down  in  the  bosom  of  nature. 
The  idea  has  set  me  thinking.  After  all,  most  of  the  best 
Old  World  literature  was  produced  in  the  country.  He 
wants  me  to  visit  him  on  his  farm  and  try  it,  anyway. 
I  am  going.  I'd  be  company  for  him  and  I  might  like  it. 
Really,  there  are  too  many  silly  things  one  has  to  do  here 
and  places  to  go  to." 

"I  know  it  upsets  you,"  Milicent  admitted,  "and  at 
this  time  of  the  year  it  is  beautiful  out  there  in  the  moun 
tains.  Besides,  Uncle  Tom  really  believes  you  are  going 
to  succeed." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  Carter  asked,  eagerly, 
a  flush  of  pleasure  'rising  in  his  face. 

"Because  he  talks  so  much  about  what  you've  already 
done.  Yesterday  he  borrowed  your  scrap-book  and  read 
it  constantly  all  the  afternoon.  He  had  tears  in  his  eyes 
when  he  spoke  of  some  of  the  poems  which  touched  him 
particularly.  In  fact,  he  actually  startled  me." 

"Startled  you?" 

"Yes,  by  his  extraordinary  interest,  and  some  of  the 
remarks  he  dropped.  He  seemed  to  be  restraining  his 
emotions  by  the  greatest  effort.  Once  or  twice  he  made 
me  feel  as  if  he  were  going  to  confide  something  to  me  of  a 
very  delicate  nature.  I  wonder  if  living  alone  so  long 
may  not  have  affected  his  mind.  He  has  never  been  the 

6 


THE    INNER   LAW 

same  since  Cousin  Tom  and  Aunt  Hattie  died.  He  never 
speaks  of  them,  and  that  is  odd,  for  there  never  was  a 
more  devoted  husband  and  father.  You  know  he  fairly 
worshiped  Cousin  Tom.  While  the  poor  boy  was  alive  he 
was  his  constant  companion." 

"Their  deaths  so  close  together  must  have  shocked 
him  frightfully,"  Carter  said.  "To  my  mind,  he  was 
quite  a  different  man  before  it  happened.  He  used  to 
smile  and  jest  once  in  a  while  when  Tom  and  I  were 
together,  but  he  never  does  now.  There  is  some  mystery 
about  him,  and  it  may  come  out  before  long." 


CHAPTER  II 

A'sC  hour  later  the  games  on  the  lawn  had  ceased.  The  sun 
was  down  and  the  children  had  departed.  Through 
the  dusty  dusk  old  Crofton  drove  up  to  the  side  of  the 
house  in  an  antiquated  one-horse  phaeton  and  alighted. 
He  was  tall  and  lank,  partly  bald,  smooth-shaven,  and 
careless  as  to  his  dress.  He  wore  a  loose  shirt  and  collar, 
a  narrow  black  necktie,  a  short  black  alpaca  coat,  a  faded 
vest  of  flowered  silk,  baggy  gray  trousers,  and  a  fuzzy  top- 
hat  which  needed  reshaping  and  pressing.  The  pockets 
of  his  coat  bulged  out  with  note-books,  pencils,  and  legal 
documents.  On  his  shirt-front  were  spots  of  stain  and 
flakes  of  ashes,  for  he  smoked  as  well  as  chewed  tobacco. 

As  he  ascended  the  veranda  steps  his  brother,  a  man  of 
quite  the  same  general  build  and  features  as  himself, 
came  slowly  down  the  stairs. 

"Thought  you  were  coming  to  my  office,"  Gilbert 
remarked,  carelessly.  "I  sat  waiting  for  you  for  fully  an 
hour.  Some  of  your  old  college  friends  came  in  to  see  you 
— Jim  Andes  and  Fred  Meek — but  they  were  busy  with  a 
land  deal  up  the  State  and  had  to  leave." 

"I'm  sorry  I  did  not  see  them,"  Thomas  Crofton  re 
turned.  "I  started  down  and  got  as  far  as  the  corner,  but 
the  asphalt  was  as  hot  as  an  oven.  I  could  see  it  bend 
like  dough  under  the  wagon-wheels.  It  was  being 
sprinkled  and  a  cloud  of  steam  rose  from  it." 

Gilbert  grunted  contemptuously.  "There  you  go 
again!  If  I  were  like  you  I'd  live  in  a  cave,  go  stark 
naked,  and  be  done  with  it.  You  are  becoming  more 

8 


THE    INNER   LAW 

and  more  unnatural,  and  will  end  by  being  a  regular 
hermit  there  in  the  mountains.  Other  men  have  lost 
their  kin  and  not  made  so  much  fuss  about  it  as  you  do. 
You  ought  to  mix  and  mingle  with  people  and  business. 
Activity,  and  plenty  of  it,  is  what  you  need." 

"I  can't  help  being  as  I  am,"  Thomas  sighed.  "You 
and  I  were  never  alike,  you  know.  The  terrible  turmoil 
you  live  in  would  kill  me.  It's  killing  you,  but  you  don't 
know  it." 

Gilbert  sniffed,  but  as  he  and  his  brother  walked  out  on 
the  veranda  he  grew  suddenly  silent.  Presently  Gilbert 
faced  his  brother  and  stared  at  him  steadily,  a  shifting 
look  of  concern  in  his  eyes. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  that  last  remark?"  he  asked. 

Thomas  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  I  tell  you  it  will 
be  for  your  good,  and  for  no  other  reason,"  he  said,  ear 
nestly.  "I've  been  here  only  three  days,  and  every  night 
I've  seen  you  walking  about  at  all  hours,  sometimes  in 
your  room,  then  in  the  library,  then  out  here  on  the 
grass — chewing  and  smoking,  moving  about  as  restlessly 
as  a  tiger  in  a  cage.  Then  at  times  you  have  a  queer  look 
in  your  eyes,  as  if — as  if — " 

"I've  had  big  things  to  think  out,"  Gilbert  broke  in 
with  a  touch  of  rising  irritation.  "When  big  deals  hang 
fire  or  some  fool  upsets  my  plans  I  can't  sleep.  So  much 
depends  on  me,  you  see.  I  take  a  notion  to  put  a  thing 
through,  and  I  can't  rest  till  it  is  done  and  I  see  the  results 
in  hard  cash  or  substantial,  interest-drawing  investments." 

"Well,  you  are  killing  yourself,  that's  all,"  Thomas  said. 
"  Keep  it  up  and  you  won't  be  alive  five  years  from  to-day." 

Gilbert  sat  on  the  balustrade  and  folded  his  arms. 
"Humph!"  he  ejaculated.  "That's  your  opinion,  eh?" 

"You  may  sniff  and  sneer,"  the  other  said,  "but  I  am 
giving  you  the  best  advice  you  ever  had.  My  quiet  life 
in  the  mountains  has  given  me  the  opportunity  to  read 
and  think  on  lines  often  overlooked  by  more  active 

9 


THE    INNER   LAW 

persons.  The  foundation  of  your  fortune  and  the  little 
I  have  to-day  was  made  by  our  father.  You  resemble 
him  in  many  ways." 

"I've  been  told  that  before,"  Gilbert  said.  "He  was 
the  keenest  trader  of  his  day.  If  he  had  lived  longer  and 
the  war  hadn't  taken  his  negroes  he'd  have  left  us  a 
bigger  chunk  of  money  than  he  did." 

"Yes,  if  he  had  lived  longer,  but  he  didn't  live.  He 
burnt  the  candle  at  both  ends.  He  died  at  about  your 
age.  Did  you  ever  think  of  that?  He  died  of  softening 
of  the  brain.  The  disease  itself  is  not  hereditary,  but  the 
mental  habits  which  produce  it  are.  I  do  not  want  to 
make  you  mad,  but  I  do  want  to  warn  you.  The  other 
day  you  told  me  an  odd  thing.  It  worried  me,  and  it 
ought  to  worry  you." 

"What  was  that?"  Gilbert  took  the  quid  of  tobacco 
from  his  mouth,  threw  it  on  the  grass,  and  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  for  a  cigar.  He  avoided  his  brother's  kindly  gaze. 
His  hands  quivered;  his  broad  lip  twitched. 

"Why,  you  told  me  that  a  stranger  introduced  him 
self  to  you  recently,  and  when  you  tried  to  tell  him 
your  own  name  you  could  not  do  so.  You  could  not 
remember  it." 

"Yes,  that  was  true,  but  I  was  worried  at  the  time  over 
business.  He  asked  me  rather  sudden-like.  Bosh !  You 
can't  scare  me." 

"I  remember  that  that  was  one  of  the  first  symptoms 
of  our  father's  breakdown,"  Thomas  Crofton  wrent  on. 
"He  came  in  one  day  and  admitted  to  us  all  that  his 
memory  was  gone.  He  couldn't  recall  things  which  had 
happened  only  the  day  before.  He  was  frightened.  Un 
like  you,  he  saw  the  seriousness  of  his  condition.  He  went 
to  doctors,  you  know,  and  they  all  advised  a  less  strenuous 
life.  He  tried  to  follow  their  directions,  but  it  was  too 
late." 

Gilbert  struck  a  match  and  lighted  his  cigar.  "Oh,  I 

10 


THE    INNER    LAW 

remember  all  that,"  he  said,  stubbornly.  "You  can't 
frighten  me.  You  and  I  are  different  sorts  of  men. 
I'm  all  right.  I'll  live  as  long  as  you  do — mark  my  words. 
Huh!  I'm  laying  plans  for  things  now  that  won't  get 
ripe  for  twenty  years." 

"You  really  don't  know  how  serious  your  condition  is," 
Thomas  went  on,  gravely.  "The  night  before  last  you 
left  your  bed  about  three  o'clock.  You  walked  un 
steadily,  knocking  against  tables  and  chairs.  I  heard  you 
go  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  library.  I  looked  down 
the  steps,  and  as  there  was  no  light  below  I  wondered  what 
was  wrong.  I  heard  you  in  the  hall,  fumbling  with  the 
lock  of  the  front  door.  Then  you  crossed  the  veranda 
and  stumbled  down  the  steps.  I  went  to  the  window  of 
my  room  and  looked  out.  I  saw  you  restlessly  pacing 
back  and  forth  on  the  walk.  I  went  back  to  bed  and 
tried  to  sleep,  but  I  still  heard  your  step  on  the  gravel 
and  failed.  You  were  there  fully  two  hours.  I  looked 
out  several  times  and  you  were  always  smoking.  It  was 
five  o'clock  by  my  watch  when  you  came  back  to  your 
room." 

Gilbert  laughed  contemptuously.  "You  think  you've 
made  a  big  discovery,  don't  you?  That's  because  you've 
not  seen  much  of  me  for  the  last  twenty-five  years.  I've 
been  doing  that  sort  of  thing  for  a  long  time  now.  It  is 
the  way  I  work  out  some  of  my  best  schemes.  To  tell 
the  truth,  I  was  awfully  worried  that  night.  I  had  just 
made  a  big  investment  in  Charley  Farnham's  new  railroad. 
I  was  acting  on  my  best  judgment  when  I  went  into  it,  and 
I  ought  to  have  let  that  first  impression  suffice,  but  a 
spiteful  fellow  that  envies  Charley's  big  success  set  in  to 
poison  my  mind.  He  told  me  all  sorts  of  things  about 
Charley's  fast  life  and  extravagant  habits,  and  hinted  that 
I  was  the  chief  financial  cat's-paw  of  the  scheme  and  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  whole  town.  He  said  Charley  would 
go  to  pieces  in  a  month  or  so,  and  that  the  cash  I'd  ad- 

ii 


THE   INNER   LAW 

vanced  would  be  lost.  I  ought  to  have  had  more  sense 
than  to  let  a  meddling  fool  like  that  upset  me,  but  I  could 
not  sleep  that  night.  The  more  I  thought  about  it  the 
more  I  was  convinced  that  I  had  been  taken  in.  You 
see,  it  hurt  my  business  pride  to  think  that  I'd  been  hood 
winked  by  a  man  as  young  as  Farnham  is.  The  reason  I 
happened  to  favor  the  railroad  in  the  first  place  was  that 
Farnham  and  Carter  are  such  close  friends.  I  said  to 
myself  that  the  investment  was  to  be  a  fine,  substantial 
nest-egg  for  Carter,  one  that  will  eventually  make  him 
rich.  Carter  is  my  favorite  among  my  children.  I  don't 
deny  it.  The  other  two  rub  me  the  wrong  way,  but  some 
how  he  never  does.  He  has  a  fine  nature  and  everybody 
knows  it.  He'll  never  be  a  practical  man,  but  I  don't 
care.  We've  had  writers  and  teachers  in  our  stock  away 
back.  In  fact,  we  all  thought  you'd  be  a  poet  your 
self.  I  know  mother  was  disappointed  when  you  mar 
ried  and  settled  down  on  a  farm  and  quit  writing.  Yes, 
they  all  say  Carter  will  make  his  mark,  and  I  want  to 
help  him  all  I  can.  To  write  well,  they  tell  me,  a  man 
ought  to  have  his  mind  free  from  worry  over  business 
matters,  and  the  railroad  interest  struck  me  as  being  the 
most  substantial  thing  for  the  boy.  But  the  worry  I  had 
that  night  did  me  good.  I  set  inquiries  afloat  the  next 
day  and  fully  investigated  Farnham's  record.  He  does 
spend  money  like  water.  He  gives  swell  dinners  and 
acts  as  lavishly  as  a  royal  prince,  but  it  is  because  such 
things  bring  him  into  contact  with  men  of  big  capital. 
No  one  has  ever  seen  him  drunk.  He  has  never  played 
a  game  of  cards  in  his  life  nor  gambled  in  risky  stocks  or 
futures.  There  is  no  secret  about  his  habits  with  certain 
fast  women.  He  comes  from  the  same  sort  of  hot  blood 
that,  you  and  I  came  from,  and  is  not  a  whit  worse.  The 
Lord  knows  we  have  no  right  to  criticize  him  on  that 
score." 
Thomas  Crofton  shuddered.  An  expression  of  deep 

12 


THE   INNER   LAW 

pain  clutched  his  thin  features.  "You  always  manage 
to  lug  that  in,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"And  you  always  manage  to  keep  it  out,"  Gilbert 
laughed,  coarsely.  "I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't  believe 
you  are  becoming  a  saint  out  there  in  your  mountains. 
I  haven't  much  use  for  a  man  that  condemns  the  young 
for  doing  things  he  is  too  old  to  enjoy  himself." 

Thomas  turned  upon  his  brother  almost  fiercely,  "If  a 
man  learns  by  experience  that  lust  of  the  flesh  is  actual 
damnation  to  the  soul,  and  does  not  advise  the  young 
against  it  he  is  a  weakling  and  a  coward." 

"Puff!"  sniffed  Gilbert,  and  he  laughed  softly.  "You 
may  have  learned  that  it  is  damnation,  but  what  is  that 
to  the  rest  of  the  world?  Well,  you  may  preach  your  doc 
trine  where  you  want  to,  but  don't  mention  it  to  a  Crof- 
ton.  So  far  Carter  is  as  innocent  as  a  girl,  but  I  am  watch 
ing  him.  One  of  these  days  he  will  blaze  out  and  come 
to  me  for  help  out  of  his  scrapes  as  Henry  has  done  often 
enough." 

"For  God's  sake  don't  entertain  the  thought,"  Thomas 
cried.  "I  believe  he  will  be  different.  His  soul  is  more 
awake  than — than  ours  were — than  Henry's  was.  He  is 
your  son  and  not  mine,  but  I  sometimes  put  him  in  my 
poor  dead  boy's  place,  and  I  am  praying  to  God  to  keep 
him  pure.  Why  should  we  all  be  accursed?  There  are 
pure,  clean  men  in  the  world.  Why  should  there  not  be 
one  at  least  in  our  family?" 

"They  are  as  God  made  them,  if  there  is  a  God,"  Gil 
bert  smiled.  "  If  there  is  a  God  He  put  certain  impulses  of 
procreation  into  men,  and  men  such  as  you've  become 
lately  say  that  it  is  the  work  of  hell  and  the  devil. 
But  you  and  your  sort  are  in  the  minority.  All  men  of 
experience  and  observation  know  that  your  views  are 
poppycock  pure  and  simple.  There  comes  Henry  now. 
The  Lord  only  knows  what  he's  been  up  to  to-day.  He's 
a  sly  rascal — one  of  the  old  style  that  saws  wood  and  says 

13 


THE    INNER    LAW 

nothing.  One  day  I  heard  that  he —  Never  mind,  I  can't 
tell  you  now;  he  doesn't  know  I'm  on  to  him.  Some 
married  man  with  sand  in  his  gizzard  and  a  pair  of  eyes 
in  his  head  will  shoot  him  down  in  his  tracks  one  of  these 
days." 

The  gate  was  open,  and  Henry  Crofton  strolled  up  the 
walk.  He  was  short  in  stature,  inclined  to  thinness  of 
frame,  had  light-blue  eyes,  brown  hair,  a  rather  large 
head  which  was  becoming  bald  on  top.  He  was  stylishly 
and  even  foppishly  attired,  and  a  faint  perfume  came  from 
the  handkerchief  with  which  he  was  wiping  his  brow. 
His  lips  and  mouth  were  rather  sensuous  in  appearance. 
His  slender,  all  but  attenuated  fingers  had  long,  well- 
cared-for  nails,  their  tips  stained  with  nicotine  from  cig 
arettes;  his  brown  mustache  was  curved  and  twisted 
after  the  most  approved  fashion.  The  pin  in  the  full,  rich 
necktie  was  a  fine  pearl  surrounded  by  diamonds.  He 
carried  a  light  cane  with  which  he  gracefully  saluted  the 
two  men  as  he  drew  near  them. 

4 'Hot  enough  for  you,  unc'?"  he  asked,  with  an  easy 
smile. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Thomas  replied,  a  far-away  look  in 
his  eyes.  "I'm  not  used  to  it,  you  know." 

"I'm  just  back  from  Asheville,"  Henry  went  on  in  his 
rather  shrill  voice.  "It  is  fine  and  cool  up  there — slept 
under  blankets  every  night." 

"You  ought  to  come  out  my  way,"  his  uncle  said,  soft 
ly.  "It  is  delightful  there  even  in  the  warmest  weather." 

"I've  been  thinking  I  would,"  Henry  returned  with 
a  smile,  "but  something  always  prevents.  This  town  is 
not  what  it  was  in  your  day.  It  is  a  gay  place  socially, 
and  our  leading  business  men  are  as  active  as  plungers 
in  Wall  Street.  I  wish  you  would  talk  to  father.  I  don't 
profess  to  know  his  business,  but  he  is  working  too  hard. 
All  his  associates  say  so  to  me,  at  least,  and  I've  seen  him 
at  his  desk  when  he  was  on  the  verge  of  collapsing.  I 

14 


THE    INNER   LAW 

was  there  once  lately  when  he  was  unable  to  sign  his 
name,  and — you  remember  it,  father — the  matter  had  to 
stand  over  till  the  next  day." 

Gilbert  frowned  and  averted  his  face.     He  said  nothing. 

Henry  looked  at  him  regretfully  a  moment,  then  said: 
"Forgive  me,  father.  I'm  afraid  I've  offended  you  again, 
but  I  didn't  mean  to  meddle.  It  is  only  natural  for  me 
to  worry.  I  can't  give  advice.  I'm  a  dead  failure  at 
everything.  Even  Carter,  as  young  as  he  is,  has  a  future 
before  him  that  will  be  worth  while.  I  know  I'm  proud 
of  him.  Well,  I'll  go  up  and  wash  the  dust  off  my  hands, 
and  will  see  you  at  supper.  There  is  the  bell;  I  must 
make  haste." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  whole  family  answered  the  bell's  summons. 
Milicent  sat  in  her  mother's  chair  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  her  two  brothers  on  her  right,  her  uncle  on  the 
left.  Her  father  sat  at  the  opposite  end.  A  yellow  maid, 
in  white  cap  and  apron,  brought  in  the  dishes  from  the 
kitchen  adjoining  the  dining-room  through  a  doorway,  the 
shutter  of  which  swung  noiselessly.  There  were  cold  ham, 
hot  biscuits,  fried  chicken,  eggs,  home-made  preserves, 
coffee,  and  tea.  The  meal  passed  almost  in  silence. 
Thomas  Crofton,  as  he  ate  and  drank,  wondered  how  it 
could  be  that  his  niece  and  nephews  were  so  unobservant 
of  the  great  change  that  had  come  over  their  father 
within  the  two  years  since  Thomas  had  paid  his  last  visit 
to  them.  Was  it  possible  that  they  failed  to  note  the 
deep  lines  about  the  too-loose  mouth,  the  quivering 
fingers,  the  restless  eyes  beneath  the  lowering  brows  which 
shot  questioning  and  yet  cautious  glances,  now  behind 
him,  now  on  either  side,  or  over  the  heads  of  his  children 
to  the  curtained  windows?  How  was  it  that  they  failed 
to  see  Gilbert  now  and  then  drop  his  knife  and  fork, 
clutch  his  food  with  his  fingers,  and  shove  it  clumsily  into 
his  mouth  as  from  animal  instinct  alone? 

When  they  all  rose  from  the  table  Thomas  Crofton 
went  out  on  the  veranda;  thence  he  descended  to  the 
lawn  and  strolled  across  the  grass  to  a  summer-house, 
where  he  sat  staring  blankly  before  him.  He  was  think 
ing  of  Henry's  character  and  the  horrible  indifference  of 
his  father  to  it. 

16 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"My  God!  the  curse  is  on  us  all!"  he  cried,  almost 
aloud.  "  My  father  had  it  in  his  veins.  Lust,  lust  was  in 
his  blood  and  loins.  Gilbert  is  checked  only  by  his  failing 
health  and  craze  for  wealth.  Henry  is  going  down  if 
ever  a  man  was,  and  I  myself  stand  before  God  still  un- 
pardoned,  and  I  may  never  be." 

There  was  a  step  on  the  grass  in  the  direction  of  the 
house.  Some  one  was  coming.  It  was  Carter.  He 
paused  and  leaned  in  the  vine-hung  doorway. 

"I  saw  you  come  this  way,"  he  began,  half  timidly. 
"I've  been  waiting  for  a  chance  to  see  you  alone.  Milly 
happened  to  say — she  is  so  anxious  to  encourage  me,  you 
know — she  happened  to  say,  uncle,  that  you  had  the  kind 
ness  to  look  over  my  scrap-book.  I  was  not  sure  that 
you  had  ever  run  across  any  publication  of  mine.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I've  dreaded  your  verdict,  for  I  know  the 
fine  taste  you  have  in  such  matters.  The  things  you, 
yourself,  wrote  when  you  were  young  always  appealed 
to  me." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  anything  of  mine!"  Thomas  said, 
quickly.  "All  that  belongs  to  the  past.  I  didn't  keep 
it  up,  you  know.  I  let  other  matters  distract  my  atten 
tion.  I  dawdled  my  time  away  till  it  was  too  late." 

"What  you  wrote  was  written  at  about  my  age,  I  be 
lieve,"  Carter  remarked,  tentatively. 

"Yes,  just  after  leaving  college."  Thomas  motioned  to 
the  seat  beside  him,  and  his  nephew  sat  down.  Neither 
could  see  the  face  of  the  other  distinctly,  for  it  was  quite 
dark,  the  only  light  being  that  of  the  electric  lamp  sus 
pended  across  the  street.  An  audible  sigh  escaped  the 
older  man.  He  raised  his  hand  and  stroked  his  beard. 

"Even  now,"  Carter  began,  "it  seems  to  me  with  your 
ripe  experiences  in  life,  and  that  ideal  retreat  of  yours  in 
the  mountains,  that  you  ought  to  be  able  to — " 

"It's  too  late— it's  too  late!"  broke  in  the  other.  "You 
are  too  young  to  understand  what  I  mean,  my  boy.  I'm 
2  17 


THE    INNER    LAW 

afraid  I  could  not  make  it  clear  without  going  into  mat 
ters  which  I'd  rather  forget.  When  we  fail  to  take  the 
right  course  in  life  the  time  comes  when  the  remainder 
of  life  seems  too  short — too  unimportant  to  be  worth  im 
proving.  Living  poetry,  it  seems  to  me,  must  bubble  up 
from  implicit  faith  in  the — the  ultimate  meaning  of  life 
and  the  boundless  content  that  accompanies  such  a  faith." 

"I  wish  I  had  your  beautiful  philosophy,"  Carter  said. 
"I've  thought  hundreds  of  times  of  what  you  said  to  me 
at  poor  Tom's  funeral.  No  one  else  had  ever  been  so 
outspoken,  and  I  think  it  did  me  good." 

"What  I  said  that  day  came  from  abject  despair," 
Thomas  said,  huskily.  "My  whole  hope  had  been  in  my 
boy,  and  there  he  lay  in  his  coffin.  He  loved  you,  Car 
ter,  and  for  his  sake  I've  loved  you  ever  since  his  death. 
I  want  you  to  be  happy  and  successful,  though  I  am  almost 
past  desire  in  most  things.  I  would  give  my  life  now  if 
by  so  doing  I  could  teach  you  to  avoid  certain  things 
which  lead  the  young  away  from  correct  living.  Some 
of  us  here  in  the  South  are  terribly  wrong  in  a  certain 
attitude  to  life.  My  father  was  blind  to  the  moral  dan 
gers  which  lay  before  me,  and  your  father — blind  or  in 
different,  one  or  the  other — and  your  father,  I  fancy,  has 
never  spoken  plainly  to  you  or  Henry  or  warned  you." 

"No,  he  has  not,"  Carter  replied,  somewhat  abashed. 
"I  know  what  you  mean,  and  I  appreciate  your  mention 
ing  it." 

"If  I  could  only  feel  sure  that  you  do  fully  understand 
I  would  rest  satisfied,"  Thomas  pursued,  earnestly;  "but 
you  may  not — you  really  may  not,  and  above  all  things 
I  want  you  to  understand.  To  be  plainer,  Carter,  there 
seems  to  be  a  hereditary  trait  in  the  blood  of  the  Crof- 
tons  that  few  of  the  men  have  escaped.  Those  of  coarser 
fiber — Henry  and  your  father — have  not  suffered  much  in 
consequence  of  it,  and  they  may  not,  but  it  would  be  dif 
ferent  with  you.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  It 

18 


THE    INNER   LAW 

would  crush  out  your  beautiful  ideality,  kill  your  poetic 
inspiration,  and  in  the  end  you'd  loathe  yourself.  The 
mystic  sense  of  God  and  His  laws  must  inspire  all  true 
poetry,  and  that  wondrous  sense  of  the  transcendental 
does  not  accompany  lust  of  the  flesh  and  its  horrible  con- 
Sjpquences." 

For  a  moment  neither  of  the  two  spoke.  Milicent  was 
playing  on  the  piano.  The  sweet  old  song  she  began 
to  sing  came  through  the  open  windows  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Presently  Carter  broke  the  silence.  His  voice 
was  low  and  full  of  sympathy. 

"I  want  you  to  know,  uncle,  that  I  fully  understand 
what  you  mean.  Father  has  kept  back  nothing  from  me 
as  to  his  early  life;  I  know  it  all.  In  fact,  I  know  the 
type  of  man  my  grandfather  was.  I  couldn't  avoid  that. 
Even  Milly  knows,  for  among  the  old  papers  in  the  house 
is  his  will,  in  which  he  makes  bequests  to  certain  ille 
gitimate  children  of  his.  That  came  to  me  as  a  shock, 
for  in  a  way  I  reverenced  him." 

"I  see  you  do  understand,  and  I  am  satisfied." 

"Yes,  and  I  can  promise  you  that— 

"Don't!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "Make  no  promises  to 
me  or  to  any  one.  I  once  made  a  promise  to  God — I'm 
speaking  plainly,  my  boy — I  made  a  promise  to  God  on 
my  bended  knees,  and  broke  it.  Some  day  I  may  unroll 
my  life  to  you.  I  will,  if  it  will  prevent  you  from  doing 
what  I've  done.  I've  searched  all  literature  in  vain  for 
a  record  of  any  human  agony  as  refined  and  intricate  as 
mine  has  been,  and  still  is.  If  God  has  ever  yet  laid  His 
hand  on  man  as  heavily  as  He  has  on  me  I  do  not  know 
of  it.  I  want  you  to  come  to  see  me.  I  won't  preach  to 
you  any  more,  but  something  has  given  me  the  hope  that 
I  may  help  you  into  the  road  I  missed,  and  that  perhaps 
God  may  grant  me  that  as  a  part  of  my  atonement." 

"I  am  coming.  I've  set  my  heart  upon  it,"  Carter  re 
sponded,  with  feeling.  "I  appreciate  more  than  I  can 

19 


THE    INNER   LAW 

express,  uncle,  what  you  have  said  and  the  way  you  have 
put  it.  I  feel  drawn  to  you  to-night  as  I've  never  been 
drawn  even  to  my  father.  I  know  you  are  suffering,  and 
if  I  can  help  you  during  my  stay  out  there  I  shall  do  it. 
You  inspire  me  as  I  never  was  inspired  before.  I  shall 
come  very  soon.  I  am  tired  of  the  silly  chatter  and  whirl 
of  people  and  things  here  in  town." 

Milly  was  beginning  another  song.  Thomas  Crofton 
rose  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  nephew,  who 
felt  it  quivering. 

"It  has  been  several  years  since  I've  heard  music  like 
that,"  he  faltered.  "The  piano  out  home  has  been  closed 
a  long  time  now  and  there  is  no  one  to  open  it.  Let  us 
go  in  and  join  your  sister.  You  have — have  taken  a  load 
off  my  mind,  my  son.  You  are  coming  soon,  you  say?" 

"  Yes,  very  soon.  You  may  expect  me  within  the  week, 
and  I  shall  stay  till  you  order  me  away.  I  am  going  to 
work  hard  and  enjoy  it  fully." 


CHAPTER  IV 

AS  the  time  approached  for  his  visit  to  his  uncle's  farm 
/v  Carter  became  more  and  more  delighted  with  the 
prospect  before  him.  He  got  together  the  few  books, 
notes,  and  manuscripts  which  he  intended  to  take  with 
him  and  began  to  pack  his  trunk.  He  smiled  as  he  put 
in  his  evening  suit.  "I'll  have  no  need  for  it  out  there," 
he  said.  "We'll  go  to  bed  with  the  chickens  and  rise 
with  the  sun." 

At  this  moment  Henry  came  across  the  hall  from  his 
room.  He  paused  in  the  doorway  and  looked  in.  He 
nodded  and  smiled. 

"Say,  Cart',  have  you  got  any  spare  change?  I'm 
going  to  Rome  with  some  fellows.  There  is  a  dance  on 
to-night,  a  horse-race  to-morrow,  and  I  am  clean  out  of 
cash.  I  must  have  a  ten-spot.  I  won't  have  time  to 
see  father;  he  has  gone  to  the  country  to  attend  a  land 
sale." 

"Yes,  I  can  spare  it,"  Carter  answered,  and  he  gave  his 
brother  the  money. 

' '  Thanks .  So  you  are  off  to-morrow  ? ' '  Henry  thrust  the 
bill  into  his  pocket  carelessly  and  turned  to  leave.  "Well, 
I  can't  say  much  for  your  taste,  but  I  hope  you  will  like 
it.  I  spent  one  day  in  that  old  house  last  summer,  and 
it  gave  me  the  shivers  for  a  month  afterward.  Gloom 
leaked  out  of  the  very  walls  and  stood  in  black  puddles 
on  the  floor,  but  you  and  uncle  have  a  lot  in  common,  and 
you  may  like  it.  There  was  only  one  redeeming  feature 
about  the  place.  There  was  a  girl  there.  Gee!  she  was 

21 


THE    INNER    LAW 

a  gem — the  most  luscious  trick  I  ever  saw.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  the  old  mountain  woman  who  does  the  house 
work.  The  girl  was  only  about  seventeen,  and  shy  and 
awkward,  but  she  had  a  shape  and  complexion  ahead  of 
anything  in  this  town.  She  couldn't  read  or  write,  bless 
you!  She  told  me  so  in  her  awful  dialect,  but  her  voice 
was  as  round  and  mellow  as  a  mocking-bird's.  Well, 
good-by.  I  must  hurry  on.  I  sha'n't  forget  this  money. 
I'll  lay  it  aside  for  you  sure." 

When  he  had  left  Milicent  came  to  the  door.  "You  let 
him  have  it;  I  know  you  did,"  she  said.  "He  tried  to 
get  it  from  me,  but  I  flatly  refused.  I  can't  let  him  throw 
away  my  savings.  He  never  thinks  of  repaying;  besides, 
he  is  living  too  fast.  He  spends  three  times  as  much  as 
you  do.  I  am  absolutely  ashamed  of  him.  Everybody 
knows  what  he  is;  he  hasn't  a  particle  of  pride.  I  blush 
and  shudder  every  time  I  meet  him  out  among  my  friends. 
He  has  such  a  bold,  coarse  manner,  especially  among 
women." 

"Never  mind,"  Carter  said,  consolingly.  "We  can't 
help  what  he  is.  Besides,  he  may  come  out  all  right." 

"No;  it  is  too  late,"  Milicent  declared.  "His  affairs 
are  the  talk  of  the  town.  He  glories  in  his  awful  conduct 
with  disgusting  women  all  over  the  South.  He  breaks 
hearts  and  tramples  them  under  foot.  He  will  never 
marry — no  self-respecting  woman  would  have  him,  and 
the  others  are  too  wise.  Did  you  ever  think  of  it?  The 
future  of  our  name  is  now  solely  in  your  care.  Uncle's 
son  is  gone,  and  uncle  will  never  marry  again.  Oh,  Car 
ter,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  depend  upon  you.  You 
are  brilliant.  You  have  brains  and  lofty  ideals.  You 
are  going  to  pull  the  Crofton  name  out  of  the  mire  and  put 
it  where  it  used  to  stand  in  the  history  of  the  country. 
You  will  marry  some  nice  girl,  have  children,  and  lead  a 
normal  life." 

"Poor  sis!"  He  kissed  her  brow  gently  and  stroked 

22 


THE    INNER   LAW 

back  her  hair.  "You  are  blue  to-day.  Uncle  Tom's 
coming  has  reminded  you  of  his  troubles,  and  you  have 
taken  them  on  yourself." 

"Oh,  it's  everything  put  together,"  Milicent  sighed. 
"Haven't  you  noticed  the  change  in  father  lately?" 

"I  noticed  that  he  was  rather  talkative,"  Carter  replied, 
"and  rather  over -affectionate  with  me,  at  least.  He 
caught  me  the  other  day  in  the  hall  and  actually  hugged 
me.  Tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  shook  so 
that  he  could  hardly  speak.  That  was  strange  conduct 
for  him,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  he  has  changed  remarkably,"  Milicent  agreed. 
"He  speaks  to  me  about  things  no  man  ought  to  men 
tion  to  his  daughter.  The  other  day  he  made  the  coarsest 
sort  of  allusion,  and  laughed  as  if  he  thought  I  ought  to 
appreciate  it.  That  is  an  indication  of  approaching  in 
sanity.  I  am  afraid  he  is  failing  fast.  It  is  a  wonder 
to  me  that  he  can  attend  to  business  as  he  is.  But 
you  must  not  worry  about  him.  I  want  you  to  have  a 
good,  restful  time  in  the  mountains.  You  must  send  me 
what  you  write.  Really,  your  career  is  all  I  have  to  care 
for  now.  I  love  to  hear  your  poems  spoken  of." 

"Well,  I'll  do  my  best  for  your  sake,"  he  smiled.  "I've 
been  unproductive  for  several  months,  and  I  feel  as  if  I 
shall  get  down  to  hard  work  out  there." 


CHAPTER  V 

AS  Carter  sat  in  the  railway-car  and  through  the  open 
Jr\  window  watched  the  dingy  suburbs  of  the  city  thin 
out  and  vanish,  and  the  green  fields  and  meadows  unfold 
before  him,  he  had  a  sense  of  vast  freedom  and  poetic 
elation.  He  felt  that  he  was  putting  something  sordid 
and  unworthy  away  and  breathing  into  himself  that  which 
was  true  and  permanent.  He  whistled  as  he  always  did 
when  quite  contented  with  himself.  He  got  out  his  Keats 
and  read  several  selections  which  fitted  into  his  mood. 

Seated  in  front  of  him  was  an  elderly  woman  and  a 
rather  pretty  young  girl,  evidently  mother  and  daughter. 
He  caught  the  girl's  glance,  steadied  his  own  upon  her, 
feeling  that  she  was  conscious  of  his  warm  and  respectful 
admiration.  He  looked  away,  only  to  glance  back  the 
next  moment  and  catch  her  almost  tentative  look.  He 
held  his  book  so  that  she  might  read  the  author's  name 
on  the  cover  and  understand  the  kind  of  literature  he 
cared  for.  He  wondered  if  by  any  chance  she  might  be 
familiar  with  his  own  productions.  A  girl  like  that  cer 
tainly  would  be  pleased  to  know  that  she  had  actually 
seen  and  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  young  Crofton 
of  whom  the  papers  had  spoken  so  highly,  and  whose 
words  had  been  set  to  music  in  one  case  at  least.  But 
the  harmless  flirtation  was  soon  to  end,  for  at  the  first 
station  the  porter  came  to  help  the  two  ladies  from  the 
car.  When  they  had  descended  to  the  ground  the  poet 
went  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  negro  driver  of  a 
carriage  had  met  them  and  was  helping  them  into  the 

24 


THE    INNER   LAW 

vehicle.  As  the  train  was  moving  on  Carter  caught  the 
girl's  backward  glance;  she  flushed  slightly  and  he  smiled. 
She  all  but  smiled  in  return,  and  he  nodded  regretfully. 
A  comfortable-looking  farm-house  half  a  mile  away,  with 
green  blinds,  a  windmill  for  supplying  water,  and  great  oaks 
in  front,  was  doubtless  the  destination  of  the  two,  and  as 
he  resumed  his  seat  he  allowed  his  fancy  to  dwell  on  the 
idyllic  life  such  a  residence  would  afford  him  with  such  a 
companion  as  the  girl  he  had  just  seen.  But  the  real 
girl  of  his  dreams  was  yet  to  be  met.  He  certainly  would 
not  attempt  to  describe  her,  for  she  would  have  qualities 
of  mind  and  points  of  physical  beauty  far  beyond  the 
ordinary.  She  might  be  the  petted  daughter  of  some  great 
general,  Senator,  or  Governor,  or  she  might  be  a  poor  girl 
without  fortune  or  name.  It  would  be  a  delight  to  furnish 
every  needed  thing  to  the  one  he  loved.  She  would  be 
neither  tall  nor  short,  stout  nor  slight,  but  she  would  be 
beautiful  in  thought  and  person,  and  aristocratic  in  bear 
ing.  Now  he  fancied  her  home  as  being  some  ancient 
mansion  in  Virginia,  and  she  might  be  some  far-off  cousin 
of  his  with  the  refined  features  he  had  seen  in  the  por 
traits  of  his  mother's  ancestors.  Her  fox-hunting  brothers 
in  their  rough  rural  clothes  would  not  appreciate  his  poetic 
nature  fully,  and  in  their  presence  he  would  have  to  sup 
press  his  ideals,  but  she  would  understand.  He  pictured 
their  marriage  in  a  quaint  chapel  near  the  mansion.  Milly 
would  be  a  bridesmaid.  The  newspapers  in  reporting  the 
wedding  would  have  much  to  say  about  his  standing  as 
a  poet  and  the  considerable  fortune  he  was  to  inherit 
from  a  wealthy  and  indulgent  father.  He  had  heard  men 
say  that  a  man  could  never  marry  his  ideal  woman,  but 
that  was  absurd.  The  wonderful  creature  destined  for  his 
companionship  was  waiting  for  him  somewhere  in  flesh 
as  well  as  in  spirit. 

Such  dreams  kept  him  company  during  the  entire  two- 
hour  journey.    Indeed,  he  was  conscious  of  a  disagreeable 

25 


THE   INNER   LAW 

shock  as  the  shrieking  whistle  of  the  locomotive  an 
nounced  its  approach  to  Benton,  the  village  where  his 
uncle's  carriage  was  to  meet  him.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
waking  from  a  delightful  sleep  filled  with  intangible,  far- 
leading  visions.  By  contrast,  the  hot  car  with  its  dust- 
covered  passengers,  some  of  whom  were  perspiring  farmers 
without  their  coats,  and  bedraggled  women  with  crying 
infants  in  their  arms,  jarred  on  him.  The  gleaming  steel 
rails  of  the  switch-yard,  in  which  the  train  was  slowing 
down,  reflected  the  hot  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the  cluster 
of  small  cottages  and  stores  of  the  hamlet  wore  a  lonely, 
dejected  look.  Scarcely  a  man,  woman,  or  child  was  seen 
on  the  unpaved  street  which  led  down  to  the  station's 
platform,  and  when  Carter  descended  to  the  ground  and 
went  into  the  little  waiting-room  his  spirits  sank  lower 
on  the  discovery  that  no  one  was  there  to  meet  him.  As 
the  train  rolled  away  he  put  his  bag  and  book  on  a  bench 
and  sat  down.  There  was  a  square  hole  in  the  partition  in 
front  of  him,  and  peering  from  it  was  a  young  man  wearing 
the  cap  of  a  telegraph-operator.  He  nodded  and  smiled. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Crofton?"  he  asked,  affably. 

"Yes,"  Carter  returned. 

"I  thought  you  might  be.  I  have  a  message  for  you. 
A  man  from  your  uncle's  place  came  in  just  now  and  said 
tell  you  that  you'd  have  to  wait  here  a  while.  One  of  Mr. 
Crofton's  horses  sprained  its  ankle,  and  he  had  to  send  for 
another.  Somebody  will  be  along  in  an  hour  or  so." 

"All  right.  Thank  you,"  Carter  replied,  with  a  smile. 
"I  am  in  no  special  hurry." 

The  operator  drew  his  face  out  of  sight,  his  instrument 
began  to  click,  and  Carter  took  up  his  book  and  tried  to 
read,  but  to  no  good  effect.  Putting  the  book  down,  he 
rose  and  stood  in  the  doorway  and  looked  out.  The 
stores  facing  the  street  on  both  sides  had  low  board  awn 
ings,  and  in  front  of  one  of  them  stood  a  hooded  wagon 
laden  with  coops  of  chickens  and  cases  of  eggs.  Down 

26 


THE    INNER    LAW 

the  winding  red-clay  road  on  a  hillside  came  a  young 
farmer  astride  of  a  mule.  He  was  driving  some  cows  and 
calves  toward  a  store  with  a  butcher's  sign  on  it.  A  little 
way  down  the  railway  track  was  a  stock-pen  full  of  hogs, 
up  to  the  chute  of  which  a  rusty  switch-engine,  which 
rocked  to  and  fro,  in  actual  decrepitude,  was  shifting  a  car. 

"How  can  people  live  like  this?"  the  poet  asked  him 
self,  with  a  weary  sigh.  "  It  would  kill  me."  He  strolled 
to  the  end  of  the  platform,  where  there  was  a  well  with  a 
bucket  and  windlass.  Having  nothing  else  to  do,  he  low 
ered  the  bucket  into  the  well  and  drew  up  some  water. 
A  tin  dipper  hung  from  a  nail  near  by,  and  he  drank  some 
of  the  water,  which  was  delightfully  cool  and  refreshing. 

"Right  you  are,  stranger!"  some  one  called  out  behind 
him,  and,  turning,  he  saw  a  spry  young  man  putting  down 
a  leather  sample-case  in  the  doorway  of  the  waiting-room, 
from  which  he  was  emerging.  "Adam's  ale  is  the  only 
drink  you  can  get  in  this  hot  hole,  and  that  is  the  best 
freestone  I  know  between  here  and  Atlanta.  If  you  don't 
mind  I'll  join  you." 

With  a  smile  Carter  filled  the  dipper  and  extended  it. 
"Yes,  it  is  good,"  he  agreed;  he  was  pleased  to  have  the 
companionship  of  a  man  even  of  the  type  the  stranger 
represented,  and  yet  he  did  not  wholly  approve  of  the 
fellow's  crude  familiarity. 

"Waiting  for  the  train,  eh?"  the  drummer  gulped  as 
he  drank  copiously.  "The  operator  says  she's  on  time, 
for  a  wonder.  Traveling-man?" 

Carter  shook  his  head  coldly.  It  struck  him  that  the 
question  was  obviously  absurd.  He  flattered  himself 
that  there  was  nothing  about  his  appearance  that  would 
justify  such  a  supposition.  Surely  any  one  could  see 
that  his  clothing  was  not  cut  by  the  kind  of  tailor  who 
supplied  commercial  men  with  their  rather  flashy  apparel  ? 
His  shoes  were  different  in  style;  his  cravat  was  rich  and 
full,  carefully  tied,  and  not  one  of  the  kind  the  drummer 

27 


THE   INNER   LAW 

wore.  The  man  wore  cuffs  with  glaring  links  which  were 
separable  from  the  sleeves,  a  veritable  abomination  in 
Carter's  eyes,  who  regarded  such  contrivances  as  con 
fessions  of  both  stinginess  and  uncleanliness  on  the  part  of 
the  wearer.  The  voluble  young  man  had  refilled  the  dip 
per,  and  now  proffered  it  with  a  broad,  friendly  grin. 

"Take  one  with  me,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you.  No  more,"  Carter  returned,  frigidly,  for 
he  was  determined  now  to  show  the  stranger  that  his 
familiarity  was  unwarranted. 

"We  can  slide  into  the  smoking-car  when  that  dang 
train  gets  here."  The  drummer  had  taken  out  two  cigars 
and  held  them  forward.  "Have  one;  they  don't  really 
cost  me  anything — such  things  go  into  my  expense  ac 
count  under  the  head  of  extras — necessary  treats  to  prom 
ising  customers  and  the  like." 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  care  to  smoke  now,"  Carter  said; 
and  he  coldly  explained  that  he  was  not  to  take  the  train 
in  question. 

To  his  surprise  the  drummer  smiled  frankly,  chuckled 
aloud,  and  said:  "There  is  no  use  beating  the  devil 
around  a  bush,  Mr.  Crofton.  I  knew  you  were  not  a 
drummer.  A  drummer  that  didn't  have  sense  enough 
not  to  know  that  you  are  not  one  would  lose  his  job  the 
first  day  out.  I  just  spoke  as  I  did  to  sort  o'  set  the  ball 
rolling,  as  the  fellow  said.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  operator 
in  there  told  me  your  name,  and  said  you  were  a  nephew 
of  Tom  Crofton.  I  was  wondering  if  you  are  a  son  of  old 
Gilbert,  of  Atlanta?" 

"I  am,"  Carter  replied,  simply. 

"By  George!  you  don't  mean  it?  Then  you  may  be  a 
brother  to  the  one  that  writes  the  fine  poems  I've  read 
in  the  papers.  Gee!  you  may  be  the  man  himself!" 

Carter  was  unaware  of  the  fact,  but  he  flushed  with 
pleasure.  "I  do  write  now  and  then,"  he  said.  "I  sup 
pose  I  am  the  one  to  whom  you  refer." 

28 


THE   INNER   LAW 

The  drummer  drew  back,  thrust  his  thumbs  into  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  and  stared.  ' ' '  To  whom. '  Now, 
I  know  you  are.  Nobody  says  that  but  a  writer  or  a  teacher 
these  days.  Stand  still,  by  gum!  Stand  still  and  let  me 
take  a  good  look  at  you.  There,  that's  all  right.  Now 
shake!  Honor  me  with  your  hand,  sir.  Harris  is  my 
name — plain  Jim  Harris,  head  traveling-man  for  Trigg 
Brothers  &  White,  of  Baltimore — sugar,  coffee,  and  tea, 
with  a  side  line  of  paper,  bags,  and  twine.  Glad  to 
meet  you,  sir.  I  don't  know  when  I've  had  a  greater 
pleasure." 

With  a  pleased  laugh  Carter  submitted  his  soft,  slender 
hand  to  the  hard,  broad  one.  His  flush  had  increased; 
he  was  tingling  with  delight  which  he  made  no  effort  to 
conceal. 

"You  flatter  me,"  he  said.  " I  am  only  a  beginner,  and 
it  is  pleasant  to  have  a  stranger  say  he  has  read  my  pro 
ductions." 

"I  couldn't  flatter  you,  sir.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  your 
gift  wherever  I  meet  it.  All  my  life,  since  I  was  a  little 
boy,  I've  thought  that  to  be  able  to  write  beautiful  things 
to  be  read  the  world  over,  after  you  are  dead  and  gone, 
was  the  greatest  gift  the  Almighty  could  grant  a  human 
being.  I  will  say  now  that  the  delight  this  meeting  gives 
me  is  partly  selfish.  Let  me  explain,  sir.  I  am  engaged 
to  a  fine,  well-born  country  girl  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
State,  and  it  was  through  her  that  I  first  came  in  contact 
with  your  work.  You  may  know  how  young  couples  will 
do  when  they  are  corresponding  with  each  other?  Well, 
she  has  often  cut  out  your  love-poems  from  the  news 
papers  and  inclosed  them  in  her  letters  as  having  some 
sort  of  application  to  our  case.  You  remember  the  one 
about  the  young  poet  meeting  the  unhappy  married  wom 
an  out  in  the  moonlight?  Gee!  that  was  fine — the  most 
original  idea  I  ever  saw  in  print.  I  didn't  send  that  to 
Mary,  and  I  don't  know  that  she  ever  run  across  it.  Of 

29 


THE    INNER   LAW 

course,  you  know  that  it  would  not  be  exactly  the  sort 
of  thing  for  a  fellow  to  send  to  his  best  girl,  for  you'll 
admit,  I  reckon,  that  it  had  a  sort  of — I  don't  know — a 
sort  of  double  meaning." 

"Well,  it  wasn't  exactly  intended  for  the  very  young," 
Carter  returned,  wisely.  "But  I  think  the  situation  was 
a  true  one." 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  the  drummer  nodded  as  he 
smoked.  "But  how  a  human  being  could  imagine  such 
a  thing,  get  it  up  out  of  air,  as  the  fellow  said,  is  a  mystery 
to  me.  You  poets  must  live  two  lives — one  of  the  flesh  and 
blood,  and  the  other  of  what  you  might  call  the  fancy. 
If  there  is  no  harm  in  asking  a  question  right  here,  I'd 
love  to  do  it." 

"Go  ahead,"  Carter  answered.  "You  seem  to  be  a 
close  observer." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  am,  but  the  imagination  has  al 
ways  been  a  great  puzzle  to  me.  I  reckon  because  I 
never  had  it.  What  I  want  to  know,  and  you  needn't 
answer  unless  you  want  to,  is  this :  when  a  poet  is  writing 
a  poem  like  that  one  of  yours,  does  he,  or  rather  is  he  for 
the  time  being  in  the  shoes  of  his  hero?  Oh,  I'm  getting 
this  all  balled  up!  Say,  I  mean  this,  did  you  while  you 
were  writing  the  description  of  that  chap's  short  love  for 
that  lonely,  passionate  woman — did  you,  in  your  own 
heart,  actually  love  the  woman  you  were  writing  about?" 

Carter  smiled  with  delight  over  the  man's  naive  ques 
tion.  "I  really  may  have,"  he  admitted.  "I  think  the 
imagination  does  sometimes  temporarily  take  on  even 
that  much  reality.  Yes,  I  think  that  I  could  not  have 
done  the  work  to  suit  me  if  I  had  not  been  able  to  feel 
at  the  moment  as  I  thought  the  man  of  the  poem  felt." 

The  drummer  looked  down  and  slowly  shook  his  head. 
"An  opinion  of  mine  isn't  worth  a  hill  of  beans  to  a  man 
like  you,"  he  said,  seriously;  "but  for  my  part,  I'd  be 
afraid  of  that  sort  o'  thing.  I  really  would." 

3° 


THE    INNER    LAW 

''You  think  you  would  be?"  Carter  was  smiling  over 
the  sheer  simplicity  of  the  man's  point  of  view. 

"  Yes,  I'd  hate  to  handle  it,"  he  said,  still  gravely.  "I 
wouldn't  touch  it  with  a  ten-foot  pole.  It  seems  to  me 
to  be  as  dangerous  to  the  health  of  the  natural  mind  as 
morphine  is  to  the  average  body.  Let  a  man  fancy  that 
he  is  in  love  constantly,  first  with  this  girl  and  then 
with  that  one,  in  his  imagination  or  out,  and  it  won't  be 
long  till  he  won't  be  able  to  love  anybody  deep,  and,  take 
it  from  me,  that  must  be  awful.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  life 
since  I  went  on  the  road,  and  I've  run  against  things  that 
have  switched  other  men  off  the  right  track  in  a  hurry. 
I'm  old-fashioned.  I  came  from  old-fashioned  Methodist 
folks  on  both  sides,  and  I  want  to  settle  down  in  an  old- 
fashioned  way — marry  the  right  sort  of  a  woman  and  try 
to  bring  up  the  right  sort  o'  children.  That's  me.  When 
I  say  I've  seen  good  men  go  crooked  on  the  road  I  mean 
it.  I've  seen  fellows  who  had  lovely  wives  at  home  get 
to  making  dates  with  gay  women  in  this  town  or  that,  and 
it  wouldn't  be  twelve  months  before  home  would  be  the 
last  place  they'd  want  to  go  back  to.  But  you  couldn't 
head  off  one  of  those  smart  Alecs  to  save  your  neck  from 
the  halter.  They  see  no  harm  in  it  as  a  pastime,  and 
never  let  up  till  it's  too  late.  They  usually  end  by  blaming 
their  Vives  with  it,  and  get  a  divorce  or  force  their  wives 
to  do  it.  So  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Crofton,  that  I  don't  let 
my  mind  dwell  long  on  any  woman  except  my  girl.  When 
my  day's  work  is  over  I  set  in  the  office  of  some  hotel  or  in 
my  room,  and  write  her  a  letter.  Sometimes  the  young 
folks  are  dancing  in  the  parlor,  and  other  drummers  are 
palming  themselves  off  as  unmarried  men  and  having  the 
time  of  their  life;  but  I  cut  it  out.  I'm  a  great  hand  at 
believing  that  my  girl  has  every  bit  as  much  right  to 
carry  on  with  fellows  behind  my  back  as  I  have  to  flirt 
with  girls  on  the  road." 

"You  are  right,  of  course,"  Carter  answered. 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"I  wish  you  could  meet  Mary,  I  really  do,"  Harris  ran 
on.  "Gee!  won't  she  be  astonished  when  I  write  her  that 
I've  actually  met  Carter  Crofton?  Say,  I  hear  my  train 
coming.  I  don't  know  how  you  will  look  at  it,  but  I 
want  to  ask  a  favor.  I  don't  know  if  you  make  a  habit 
of  doing  the  like  or  not,  and  if  you  don't  it  is  all  right. 
Would  you  mind  scribbling  your  name  down  in  my  order- 
book?  If  you  will  I'll  tear  the  leaf  out  and  send  it  to  her. 
By  gum!  she'd  frame  it,  hang  it  up  in  the  parlor,  and 
show  it  to  all  the  neighbors." 

"I  will  do  it  with  pleasure,"  Carter  agreed;  and  he 
took  the  book  and  pencil  and  complied,  finishing  the 
signature  with  the  boyish  flourish  he  liked  to  use. 

"Thank  you,  very,  very  much,  sir,"  Harris  said.  "I'll 
watch  your  career  from  now  on  with  double  interest,  and 
so  will  Mary.  When  the  grand  event  comes  off  I'll  send 
you  a  card — I  will  sure.  Good-by." 

"Good-by."  They  shook  hands,  and  as  the  cars 
slowed  up  at  the  platform  the  drummer  hurried  away 
to  get  his  sample-case.  As  the  train  rolled  off  Carter 
saw  him  leaning  from  a  window,  waving  his  handkerchief. 
And  although  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  little  beneath  his 
proper  dignity  on  such  a  short  acquaintance,  Carter 
waved  his  own  handkerchief  in  response.  Surely  the  man 
was  a  diamond  in  the  rough. 

The  very  air  seemed  full  of  ecstasy.  As  he  walked  to 
and  fro  on  the  deserted  platform  our  poet  was  wafted 
along  by  the  very  "breath  of  the  gods."  How  glorious 
it  was  to  be  able  to  sense  the  exquisite  things  which  were 
too  fine,  too  elusive  for  ordinary  minds,  and  to  have  the 
genius  to  record  them  in  lasting  form!  God  had  been 
kind  to  him  indeed.  The  choicest  gifts  of  the  universe 
were  falling  around  him  like  the  leaves  and  petals  of 
flowers.  He  had  youth,  health,  wealth,  good  birth,  and 
now  fame — glorious,  deathless  fame — was  coming. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AS!  hour  later  a  horse  and  buggy  in  charge  of  a  lank 
negro  man  of  middle  age  drove  up.  Carter  recog 
nized  the  man  as  a  farm-laborer  on  his  uncle's  place — 
an  ex-slave  of  the  Crofton  family — whom  he  had  seen  a 
few  years  before. 

"Marse  Tom  say  fetch  you  on  in  de  buggy,  young 
marster,"  he  announced,  as  he  stood  servilely  scraping  his 
broad,  ill -shod  feet  backward,  and  holding  his  slouch- 
hat  in  his  hand.  "He  say  he  couldn't  send  de  ca'ge  wid- 
out  another  hoss." 

"All  right,"  Carter  answered.  "What  about  my  trunk?" 
indicating  it  on  the  platform  near  by. 

"De  farm-wagon  comin'  fer  it,"  said  Hank.  "It  '11  be 
on  from  de  grist-mill  in  er  few  minutes  wid  er  load  er 
co'n  meal  fer  we-all's  hands." 

The  ten-mile  drive  along  the  side  of  the  foot-hills  of  the 
mountains  which  rose  blue  and  hazy  in  the  distance  was 
cool,  shaded  by  the  boughs  of  overhanging  trees,  and  de 
lightful  in  many  ways.  As  the  road  took  them  into  a 
higher  altitude  the  air  became  more  crisp  and  bracing. 
Many  wild  flowers  were  seen,  and  as  Carter  breathed  in 
their  fragrance  he  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  inspiration. 
The  transcendental  peace  and  quiet  of  the  spot  clutched 
and  charmed  his  fancy  as  nothing  had  ever  done  before. 
Surely  it  was  a  divine  fatality  which  had  brought  this 
welcome  change  into  his  life  just  when  he  needed  it.  As 
he  feasted  on  the  bluish  distance  he  seemed  to  possess 
the  mystic  power  of  seeing  beyond  the  material  limits  of 

3  33 


THE    INNER   LAW 

matter  into  the  invisible,  indescribable,  unnamable  some 
thing  which  had  long  haunted  his  boyish  dreams.  He 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  wondered  how  he  had  borne  the 
conventional  routine  he  was  leaving.  In  Atlanta  he  had 
been  a  slave  to  the  habits  and  whims  of  a  lower  order  of 
mentality,  but  now  he  was  to  be  himself  and  allow  his 
richest  impulses  full  play  out  in  nature,  as  the  greatest 
of  poets  and  artists  had  done. 

They  drove  through  a  delightful  shaded  dale,  and  came 
out  on  a  spot  where  two  roads  crossed  and  a  little  wooden 
school-house  with  green  blinds  stood  in  a  grove  of  trees. 
A  hundred  or  more  boys  and  girls,  who  evidently  had  been 
playing  games,  now  stood  still,  all  eying  with  curiosity 
the  approaching  buggy. 

' '  They  are  at  recess,  I  suppose, ' '  Carter  remarked  to  Hank. 

"No,  suh,"  was  the  smiling  answer,  "recess  done  over. 
De  teacher  let  um  stay  out  'ca'se  I  tol'  'im,  so  I  did,  dat 
I  was  gwine  fetch  you  by  dis  mawnin'." 

"Oh,  it  can  hardly  be  that!"  Carter  said,  gratified,  and 
yet,  it  may  be  stated,  not  actually  surprised. 

A  slender  young  man  in  a  long  clerical-looking  black 
coat  was  seen  leaving  the  group  and  hastening  toward 
the  buggy.  He  was  bareheaded,  and  held  a  book  in  his 
hand.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Crofton,"  he  began, 
rather  stiffly,  as  he  bowed.  "I  hope  you  won't  think  I 
am  officious,  but  I  want  to  introduce  myself  and  bid  you 
welcome  to  our  county,  sir,  in  my  humble  capacity  as 
teacher  here.  I  am  Marvin  Lewis,  sir.  I  know  your 
uncle  pretty  well,  and  he  and  I  have  often  talked  over 
your  rare  talent  and  laudable  ambition.  He  is  very  proud 
of  you;  in  fact,  we  all  here  in  the  South  are  justly  so.  We 
sorely  need  more  Laniers,  Poes,  and  Haynes." 

Uncle  Hank  had  stopped  the  horse,  and  Carter  took  the 
hand  extended  over  the  front  wheel  of  the  buggy. 

"I  am  glad  indeed  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Lewis,"  he  said. 
"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  come  out." 

34 


THE    INNER    LAW 

The  teacher  smiled,  touched  his  thin,  beardless  lips  with 
his  closed  book.  "You  notice  the  curiosity  of  my  pupils 
up  there,  sir?"  he  continued.  "They  all  wanted  to  see 
you.  I  never  fail  to  give  them  every  encouragement  in 
my  power,  and  it  is  my  opinion,  sir,  that  the  mere  sight 
of  a  graduate  of  Harvard  and  a  poet  whose  work  they  have 
seen  in  print  will  be  stimulating  to  them.  These  poor 
mountain  boys  and  girls,  Mr.  Crofton,  who  have  to  work 
in  the  fields  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  can  never  hope 
for  such  opportunities  as  you  have  had;  but  there  is 
sterling  worth  and  boundless  energy  in  many  of  them. 
I  am  saying  this  as  the  introduction  to  something  in  the 
form  of  what  may  seem  a  bold  request.  We  have  our 
public  debating  evenings,  which  are  well  attended  by 
adults  as  well  as  scholars,  and  while  you  are  at  your  uncle's, 
if  you  would  honor  us  by  your  presence  we'd  take  it  as  a 
great  favor.  If  you'd  read  one  of  your  own  productions 
to  us  we  certainly  would  appreciate  it.  It  would  be  a 
thing  we'd  long  remember." 

"I  will  do  so  with  pleasure,"  Carter  promised.  "I  can 
read  fairly  well,  but  I'm  not  a  good  speaker,  so  I  shall  beg 
you  to  excuse  me  from  making  a  talk." 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  the  teacher  smiled  as  he  drew  back 
to  allow  the  buggy  to  go  on,  "and  I  shall  keep  you  posted 
as  to  the  date  of  our  entertainment.  We  shall  be  deeply 
in  your  debt.  I  am  not  thoroughly  familiar  with  all  your 
work,  so  I  shall  beg  you  to  make  your  own  selection. 
Most  of  your  poems  which  have  come  my  way  have 
been  love-lyrics,  and  they  are  exquisite  in  form  and 
sentiment.  Your  uncle  tells  me  you  have  lately  written 
a  few  on  philosophical  lines,  which  have  not  been  pub 
lished.  I  confess  I  am  curious  to  see  them,  and,  while 
I  do  not  wish  to  influence  you  in  your  choice  of  what  to 
read  to  us,  I  assure  you  anything  of  that  kind  will  be  more 
than  welcome.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  some  of  my  scholars 
here  got  to  reading  trashy  novels,  and  I'd  like  to  divert 

35 


THE    INNER   LAW 

their  minds  into  more  wholesome  channels.  You  see 
mine  is  a  mixed  school" — the  teacher  was  now  smiling — 
"and  I  have  some  pupils  of  both  sexes  who  regard  the 
institution  as  a  sort  of  free  matrimonial  agency.  A  couple 
of  them,  who,  although  full  grown,  are  still  in  the  third 
reader,  were  planning  to  run  away  and  get  married  last 
week.  I  happened  to  intercept  some  of  their  love-notes 
and  sent  for  their  parents.  I  understand  they  were  licked 
good  and  sound."  Lewis  forgot  his  rules  of  grammar  and 
laughed  aloud  as  he  finished:  "It  actually  cured  them. 
Do  you  know,  they  never  looked  at  each  other  again 
after  that.  So  you  see  the  minds  of  such  impressionable 
creatures  as  that  pair  ought  not  to  be  fed  on  sensational 
love-stories.  I  am  glad  you  are  leaning  toward  philosophy. 
Philosophy  is  in  the  air,  and  seems  to  be  taking  the  place 
of  the  creeds  in  many  quarters.  Your  uncle  and  I  have 
had  some  wonderful  chats.  He  is  a  remarkable  man,  and 
one  I  am  not  able  fully  to  understand.  He  is  certainly 
not  what  he  used  to  be  before  he  lost  his  wife  and  son. 
Sometimes  I  think  he  is  living  too  lonely  a  life,  and  when 
I  heard  you  were  coming  to  keep  him  company  I  was 
delighted." 

As  the  horse  started  onward  Carter  looked  back  toward 
the  school-house.  A  youthful  thrill  of  triumph  passed 
over  him,  for  not  a  face  in  the  cluster  was  averted  from 
him.  A  moment  later  he  saw  them  gathering  about  their 
returning  teacher.  Something  was  said,  and  then  Carter 
heard  the  lusty  young  voices  cheering.  Understanding 
the  import  of  it,  he  waved  his  hat  in  response,  and  the 
cheering  was  repeated.  He  could  not  remember  ever 
having  felt  so  happy  before.  Even  the  girls  were  cheer 
ing  and  waving  their  handkerchiefs.  And  some  of  them 
were  quite  pretty.  Yes,  he  was  very  happy,  and  to 
morrow  he  would  begin  work  on  the  great  epic  which, 
when  finished,  would  surprise  the  world. 

They  were  now  almost  within  sight  of  the  farm-house. 

36 


THE   INNER   LAW 

The  horse  had  stopped  to  drink  at  a  clear,  unbridged 
brook  which  crossed  the  road. 

"Huh!  dat  so,  dat  so,"  Carter  heard  Hank  muttering 
to  himself. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  he  asked,  still  elated 
over  what  had  taken  place  at  the  school-house. 

"Dat  so,  what  de  teacher  say  'bout  Marse  Tom,"  the 
negro  answered.  "De  Lawd  know  he  ain't  de  same,  an* 
you  gwine  ter  find  out  he  ain't,  young  marster." 

"He's  broken-hearted  over  his  great  loss,"  Carter  said. 
"At  his  time  of  life,  you  see — " 

"Huh!  dat  ain't  it!    My  Gawd!  dat  ain't  it!" 

"You  say  it  isn't?"  Carter  replied.  " Well,  what  is  it, 
then?" 

"I  don't  know,  young  marster."  The  negro  raised  a 
sincere  stare  to  the  young  man's  face.  "I  don't  know; 
my  wife,  Mandy,  she  don't  know,  nuther,  an'  it  de  fust 
time  I  ever  seed  'er  stumped,  too.  She  kin  tell  'bout 
white  folks;  you  cayn't  fool  Mandy  wid  high  or  low — 
wid  quality  or  white  trash,  an'  she  done  give  Marse  Tom 
up.  Me,  too.  I  'lowed  once  dat  he  was  gittin'  out'n  his 
senses,  but  dat  ain't  it.  No,  suh.  You  wait  till  you  see 
how  he  act.  You  gwine  git  puzzled — see  ef  you  don't. 
'Tain't  jus'  we-all  at  de  house,  nuther;  folks  fer  miles 
around  don't  know  what  ter  mek  o'  his  doin's." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THEY  were  now  approaching  the  front  gate  of  the 
Crofton  farm-house.  It  was  a  spacious,  rambling, 
one-story  frame  building  which  had  more  than  a  dozen 
rooms.  It  had  a  long,  wide  veranda  in  front,  which  was 
well  provided  with  easy  wicker  chairs  and  benches.  The 
house  had  been  white  at  one  time,  but  the  rains  had 
washed  off  most  of  the  paint  and  left  the  walls  with  a 
fuzzy  drab  look.  The  windows  had  faded  green  shutters, 
and  over  the  small  panes  hung  ivy-leaves  and  morning- 
glory  vines.  A  lattice  of  decaying  woodwork  surrounded 
the  veranda,  upon  which  honey-suckles  grew  in  such 
neglected  profusion  that  any  one  seated  on  the  veranda 
could  not  be  seen  from  the  lawn  in  front.  The  lawn, 
which  Carter  remembered  as  being  well  kept  on  his  last 
visit,  had  now  a  run-down  appearance.  Gullies  were 
washed  in  what  had  been  beautiful  gravel  walks,  and  the 
level,  once  grassy  sward  was  overgrown  with  weeds  and 
sprouting  bushes. 

As  they  drew  in  at  the  gate,  which  had  a  broken  hinge 
and  had  to  be  lifted  aside  by  the  driver,  Carter  saw  his 
uncle  under  the  trees  at  the  end  of  the  house.  He  was 
bareheaded;  he  seemed  unaware  of  their  arrival,  and  was 
walking  about,  head  down,  his  hands  folded  behind  him. 
Hearing  the  gate-latch  click,  he  turned  quickly  and  came 
forward.  Carter  had  the  unpleasant  impression  that  the 
smile  slowly  coming  into  his  uncle's  face  was  somewhat 
forced. 

"Welcome!  welcome!"  the  old  man  cried,  extending  his 

38 


THE    INNER    LAW 

hand  and  grasping  that  of  his  nephew.  "Just  think  of 
your  having  bad  luck  on  your  first  day !  I  know  you  must 
have  roasted  at  that  hot  station.  Well,  well,  we'll  make 
up  for  it.  You  can  lie  around  here  in  the  shade  and  for 
get  it.  Dinner  is  waiting  for  you.  Come  into  your  room 
and  wash  off  the  dust,  and  then  we'll  dine  together." 

The  room  to  which  his  uncle  led  him,  through  a  commo 
dious  entrance-hallway,  was  most  inviting.  In  a  corner 
stood  a  downy  bed  covered  with  a  white  counterpane  and 
having  great,  cool-looking  pillows.  In  the  center  of  the 
room  was  a  table  which  held  some  books  and  magazines, 
a  reading-lamp,  a  tray  with  pipes  and  tobacco,  and  a  box 
of  cigars. 

"How  thoughtful  you  are!"  Carter  said.  "You  are 
treating  me  like  a  prince.  I  don't  deserve  it.  I  intended 
to  live  the  simple  life  out  here,  but  you  will  prevent  it 
if  you  keep  this  up." 

"You  mustn't  miss  too  many  things,"  Thomas  said,  a 
touch  of  depression  forcing  itself  into  his  would-be  cordial 
voice.  "I  laid  out  some  books  I  thought  you  might  care 
to  glance  at,  and  the  magazines  have  just  come.  You 
must  really  own  the  place  while  you  are  here.  Go  and 
come  when  you  like — that's  the  only  way,  and  will  be 
best  for  us  both.  No  poet  likes  regularity.  Mrs.  Rom- 
ley,  who  is  cooking  for  me  now,  will  obey  your  every  wish. 
She  won't  be  disturbed  if  you  dine  at  midnight  or  break 
fast  at  noon.  She  is  a  good,  faithful  old  soul.  It  came 
my  way  once  to  do  a  slight  favor  for  her,  and  she  has 
always  overrated  its  importance.  She  is  here  before  day 
light  every  morning,  and  is  working  her  fingers  to  the 
bone  to  please  me.  It  is  wonderful  how  grateful  such  per 
sons  are.  I've  tried  to  stop  her — to  make  her  take  a  rest — 
but  she  won't  let  up  a  minute.  She  is  a  poor  widow  with 
a  young  daughter  to  support,  and  they  live  in  a  log  cabin 
in  the  edge  of  the  woods  close  by.  I've  offered  to  build 
her  a  cottage  nearer  the  house,  but  she  has  always  lived 

39 


THE    INNER    LAW 

in  cabins  of  that  sort,  as  a  child,  as  a  young  married 
woman  with  a  shiftless,  drunken  husband,  and  now  she 
won't  have  anything  else.  Now  I'll  leave  you,  and  will 
meet  you  in  the  dining-room.  You  must  never  wait  for 
me  after  this.  I  have  moods  which  can't  be  depended 
on,  and  eating  has  of  late  become  almost  the  most  objec 
tionable  thing  I  do.  I  only  eat  when  I  am  obliged  to; 
but  you  are  young  and  full  of  blood,  and  out  here  ought  to 
eat  like  a  famished  bear." 

A  few  minutes  later  Carter  went  into  the  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  dining-room  adjoining  the  kitchen  at  the  end 
of  the  house.  It  was  a  large  room,  having  a  wide,  deep 
oriel  window  at  one  end,  into  which  the  midday  light 
streamed  through  stained  glass  and  snowy  lace  curtains. 

1  'Splendid!  splendid!"  Carter  exclaimed  as  his  uncle 
Signified  the  chair  he  was  to  take  at  the  long  mahogany 
table  which  held  a  vase  of  fresh  flowers.  "It  takes  me 
back  to — to —  But  pardon  me,  I  must  not  remind  you 
of—" 

"Oh  yes,  you  may,"  the  old  man  said,  his  lips  drawn 
tight.  "Why  avoid  it?  I  can't  forget  him.  So  what's 
the  use  pretending?  He  is  in  my  thoughts  always,  any 
way,  and  I  want  you,  above  all,  to  be  natural.  We  can't 
bring  him  back.  I'll  soon  master  it.  I  must — I  must. 
Seeing  you  here  without  him,  of  course,  digs  deep  into  me 
to-day — more  so  than  I  thought  it  would;  but  that  can't 
be  avoided.  To-morrow  I'll  be  all  right." 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Romley 
with  a  tray  of  steaming  dishes. 

"Here  he  is,  Mrs.  Romley,"  Thomas  said  in  a  lighter 
tone.  "He  is  a  fine,  healthy  sample  of  a  boy,  isn't  he?" 

The  woman,  who  was  about  forty  years  of  age,  lifted 
her  eyes  in  evident  embarrassment,  started  to  speak,  but 
ended  by  saying  nothing  at  all.  It  was  plain  to  Carter 
that  she  was  very  illiterate,  and  that  she  had  been,  even 
as  a  servant,  little  with  persons  in  the  higher  walks  of 

40 


THE   INNER   LAW 

life.  She  was  tall,  thin,  and  patient-looking.  Her  lips 
were  stained  with  snuff,  and  her  fingers  were  gnarled  and 
stiff.  Her  body  was  bent  as  if  from  some  burden  she 
had  borne  from  childhood. 

"Mrs.  Romley  has  been  a  godsend  to  me,"  the  old 
man  went  on,  in  the  light  tone  he  was  trying  to  effect. 
"Until  she  came  to  help  me  I  was  in  desperate  straits. 
The  negroes  could  not  be  depended  on.  She  seems  of 
late  almost  to  do  my  thinking  for  me.  The  only  trouble  is 
that  I  can't  make  her  believe  she  is  as  valuable  as  she  is." 

Glancing  at  the  woman's  profile  as  she  moved  around 
the  table,  Carter  noted  a  flushed  look  on  her  lined  face 
that  was  one  of  almost  pained  denial.  He  saw  her  shrug 
her  shoulders  and  heard  a  low  grunt  escape  her  lips,  but 
that  was  all.  He  was  hungry,  after  his  ride,  and  the  food 
had  the  delicious  flavor  which  he  had  always  found  in 
country  cooking.  He  noted,  too,  that  Mrs.  Romley 
seemed  delighted  by  his  evident  appreciation.  Her  face 
brightened  as  he  helped  himself  a  second  time  from  the 
dishes  she  brought  in. 

After  dinner  the  old  man  led  his  nephew  into  the  li 
brary,  which  adjoined  the  drawing-room  in  front  of  the 
house.  "Here  is  your  nest,"  he  said,  playfully.  "It 
has  been  cleaned  thoroughly  and  aired.  I've  added  some 
new  books  which  came  only  yesterday.  You'll  find  them 
all  there." 

It  was  a  fine  room,  oblong  in  shape  and  lighted  by  sev 
eral  broad  windows  which  opened  out  in  French  fashion, 
like  doors,  on  a  pretty  side  porch. 

"You  can  sit  out  there  and  smoke,"  Thomas  added,  in 
dicating  the  porch  with  a  movement  of  his  hand,  "and 
when  you  get  an  idea  you  can  turn  back  in  here  and  write 
it  down." 

Three  sides  of  the  room  were  lined  with  glass-doored 
black-walnut  bookcases,  which  were  filled  with  well- 
bound  volumes,  some  of  which  looked  very  antiquated. 


THE    INNER    LAW 

Above  the  cases  were  some  family  portraits,  the  canvases 
and  gold-leaf  frames  of  which  bore  the  stamp  of  age. 
Seeing  Carter  looking  at  them,  his  uncle  sighed. 

4 'They  fell  to  me,"  he  said.  "Your  father  didn't  care 
for  them  when  the  Crofton  estate  was  divided  up.  I 
think  I  gave  him  a  small  town  lot  in  exchange  for  his  half- 
interest  in  them.  For  many  years  I  dreamed  of  handing 
them  down  to — Tom,  but  now,  of  course,  they  must  be 
yours.  Your  brother  has  no  sentiment  for  such  things, 
but  the  poet  in  you  will  cry  out  for  them  later  in  life." 

"I  certainly  should  value  them  highly,"  Carter  said; 
"but  you  are  too  young  a  man  to  count  on  parting  with 
any  of  your  possessions." 

Thomas  seemed  not  to  be  listening.  His  eyes  held  a 
far-off  stare  in  their  depths.  "Now  amuse  yourself," 
he  said.  "I  have  to  ride  over  the  mountain  to  see  a 
tenant  of  mine  who  has  rented  some  land  from  me,  and 
I  may  not  get  back  till  bedtime — or  even  later.  I  wouldn't 
leave  you  alone  if  I  did  not  know  that  solitude  was  the 
best  possible  condition  for  the  creative  temperament." 

A  feeling  of  rare  elation  was  on  the  poet  as  he  lounged 
in  the  easy-chairs  and  browsed  among  the  books  he  found 
on  the  shelves.  He  heard  a  horse  walking  past  the  win 
dow,  and,  rising  to  look  out,  he  saw  Hank  leading  his 
uncle's  favorite  mount  around  to  the  front  from  the  stable 
in  the  rear.  The  next  moment  he  heard  Thomas  stalk 
heavily  through  the  uncarpeted  hall,  cross  the  veranda, 
and  clatter  down  the  steps.  Then  the  hoofs  of  the  horse 
were  heard  crunching  the  graveled  drive  from  the  house 
to  the  gate. 

Carter  resumed  his  seat  and  took  up  his  book,  but  to 
his  surprise  he  found  that  he  could  not  readily  fix  his 
mind  on  the  words  before  his  eyes.  All  at  once  he  felt 
unpleasantly  impressed  by  the  sheer  stillness  of  the  lone 
ly  old  house.  The  breeze  blew  against  the  vines  at  the 
windows,  causing  them  to  rasp  the  glass  and  mullions 

42 


THE   INNER   LAW 

with  an  uncanny  scratching  noise.  Young  and  sound  of 
body  as  he  was,  Garter  was,  nevertheless,  nervous  at 
times,  and  he  got  up,  opened  the  window  from  which  the 
sound  came,  and  with  his  penknife  cut  away  the  offending 
twigs.  He  was  about  to  resume  his  seat  when  he  heard 
Mrs.  Romley  softly  shuffling  from  the  kitchen  out  to  a 
side  door. 

"  Whar  did  he  say  he  was  goin'  to?"  she  asked  Hank, 
who  was  passing  on  his  way  back  to  the  stable. 

"He  didn't  tell  me,"  replied  the  negro,  "an'  I  didn't 
ax  'im." 

"Why  didn't  you  ax  'im?" 

"'Ca'se  'twasn't  none  o'  my  business.  I  ain't  er  fool, 
white  'ooman.  I  knows  my  place,  I  does." 

Hank  was  walking  on,  and,  thinking  that  he  might 
answer  the  woman's  question,  Carter  went  to  her  as 
she  stood  on  the  door-step.  She  was  looking  uneasily 
down  the  road  at  the  little  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  her 
master's  horse,  and  started  suddenly  and  lowered  her  eyes 
as  the  visitor  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"You  were  asking  about  my  uncle,"  Carter  said.  "He 
told  me  he  was  going  to  see  a  tenant  of  his  over  the  moun 
tain  and  might  not  be  back  till  after  dark." 

The  woman  raised  her  eyes,  a  blank  look  on  her  face; 
then,  nervously  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron,  she  smiled 
in  a  forced  sort  of  way. 

"I  just  wanted  to  know,"  she  faltered.  " He  'ain't  been 
overly  strong  here  lately.  Sometimes  he  tells  me  whar  he's 
goin',  an'  sometimes  he  don't.  I  like  to  know,  'ca'se 
sometimes  neighbors  drop  in  to  see  'im,  an'  I  don't  know 
what  to  tell  'em.  They  think  strange  ef  I  don't  know 
whar  he  is." 

He  felt  a  vague  desire  to  detain  her  as  her  slipshod  feet 
bore  her  away,  but  he  could  think  of  no  pretext  for  so 
doing,  nor  did  he  know  definitely  what  it  was  that  he 
wanted  to  ask  her  in  regard  to  his  uncle. 

43 


THE   INNER   LAW 

He  was  in  the  library,  reading,  at  four  o'clock  when 
she  brought  in  a  tray  holding  some  cakes  and  tea. 

"Oh,  what's  this,  what's  this?"  he  asked,  with  a  play 
ful  laugh. 

"Mr.  Crofton  told  me  to  do  it,"  she  answered,  simply. 
"He  wants  you  to  have  tea  every  day  at  four  o'clock — 
said  you  had  it  when  you  an'  his  son  was  off  at  school." 

"So  we  did — so  we  did,"  he  said,  still  smiling,  "and  it 
looks  nice  and  smells  delicious."  He  watched  her  place 
a  little  table  near  his  chair,  and  arrange  the  things  upon 
it.  "Uncle  is  a  fine  man,  isn't  he,  Mrs.  Romley?" 

She  suddenly  rested  her  two  hands  on  the  table,  and, 
bending  forward,  she  looked  straight  into  his  face.  Her 
voice  was  full  and  almost  broke  as  she  replied: 

"He's  the  best  man  that  ever  lived.  He's  the  best  an' 
kindest  man  that  God  ever  made.  Ef  I  stood  here  an* 
talked  all  day  an'  all  night,  I  couldn't  tell  you  how  good 
he's  been  to  me.  He  stood  by  me — he  come  to  he'p  me 
when  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  agin  me,  an'  he  was  a 
plumb  stranger.  He's  a  saint — that's  what  he  is,  a 
saint!" 

"Yes,  he's  good."  Carter  was  surprised  by  the  wom 
an's  vehemence.  "  I  love  him  more  than  any  other  living 
relative.  He  suffers  awfully,  Mrs.  Romley.  Life  means 
nothing  to  him  without  his  wife  and  son." 

The  woman  was  gazing  into  his  eyes  almost  tearfully. 
Her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  trying  to  formulate  some 
reply,  but,  suddenly  sighing,  she  turned  to  leave.  "Is 
thar  anything  else  you'd  like?"  she  faltered. 

"Nothing  else,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Romley."  Again  he 
felt  the  inclination  to  detain  her,  but,  having  no  valid 
reason  for  so  doing,  he  allowed  her  to  shuffle  out  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

had  been  at  his  uncle's  a  week.  Never  be- 
fore  had  he  so  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself,  and  he 
was  sure  it  was  the  sylvan  solitude  and  quietness  of  the 
place  that  accounted  for  it.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  was  living  wholly  in  his  imagination.  When  he  waked 
in  the  mornings,  instead  of  the  rattle  of  wheels  on  pave 
ments  of  stone,  the  clanging  of  bells,  the  tread  of  men's 
feet  on  the  way  to  work  in  a  sultry  city,  he  heard  the 
chirping  of  birds,  the  clucking  of  hens,  the  quacking  of 
ducks,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  crowing  of  cocks,  and  the 
bleating  of  sheep  and  calves.  There  was  a  bath-house 
close  to  the  main  building,  where  he  and  his  cousin  used 
to  swim  in  the  pool  of  running  water,  and  invariably  on 
rising  now  he  drew  on  his  bathrobe  and  took  a  plunge  in 
the  cold,  clear  stream.  Then  he  rubbed  his  body  briskly 
till  his  blood  fairly  tingled  in  his  veins,  and,  going  back 
to  his  room,  he  dressed  for  breakfast,  smelling  the  delicious 
food  which  Mrs.  Romley  was  preparing  for  him.  He 
loved  the  uneventful  routine  of  it  all.  He  saw  little  of 
his  uncle,  Mr.  Crofton  being  absent  most  of  the  time,  but 
he  did  not  miss  him.  In  fact,  he  was  conscious  of  a  cer 
tain  depression  of  his  spirits  whenever  the  old  man  hap 
pened  to  be  with  him  at  meals  or  joined  him  for  an  after- 
supper  smoke  on  the  veranda.  He  had  given  up  trying 
to  fathom  his  uncle's  variable  moods.  Besides,  there 
were  too  many  other  matters  to  think  about.  He  had  not 
penned  a  line  of  the  great  epic  he  was  to  write;  but  the 
general  scheme  of  it  was  constantly  in  his  thoughts.  It 

45 


THE    INNER   LAW 

was  being  born,  he  told  himself — it  was  filling  him,  pour 
ing  in  like  some  divine  fluid  from  the  infinite  reservoir  of 
beauty  and  truth,  and  soon  it  would  force  itself  into  ade 
quate  expression.  That  it  would  astonish  the  reading 
world  he  had  no  doubt.  He  was  young,  but  his  work 
would  not  be  taken  for  that  of  a  youth.  A  profound 
religious  change  had  come  upon  him.  He  often  found 
himself  praying.  He  was  inexpressibly  grateful  to  God 
for  the  countless  blessings  which  he  possessed,  and  he 
wanted  to  express  his  gratitude.  The  sight  of  the  simple 
farmers  working  in  the  fields  in  their  scant  and  sordid 
clothing,  Hank  plodding  about  the  malodorous  stables  or 
toiling  with  hoe  or  plow  in  the  garden,  the  old  woman 
shambling  all  day  long  in  her  patient,  lonely  way  about 
the  house — all  these,  by  their  sheer  contrast  to  his  own 
more  fortunate  condition,  made  him  grateful.  The  moun 
tain  men  tipped  their  coarse  hats  to  him  when  they  drove 
by  him  as  he  walked  alone  on  the  mountain  roads,  and  if 
there  were  women  or  girls  in  the  wagons  they  turned  their 
heads  and  curiously  stared  after  him.  Of  course  they 
knew  who  he  was,  he  thought — of  course  they  had  heard 
of  the  phenomenon  of  youth,  good  looks,  wealth,  and 
genius  who  was  visiting  the  silent  old  aristocrat  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  they  would  go  back  home  and  tell 
others  that  they  had  seen  him,  and  how  he  was  rambling 
alone  out  in  nature  because  there  was  nothing  else  he 
liked  so  well.  He  told  himself  that  he  had  the  means 
with  which  every  taste  or  whim  could  be  gratified,  but 
that  he  was  too  much  like  Wordsworth  and  other  out 
door  poets  to  follow  the  bent  of  average  men. 

One  morning  he  had  a  notable  experience.  Just  after 
breakfast  he  went  into  the  library  to  read  and  make  some 
notes.  With  a  copy  of  Browning,  whose  method  he  was 
studying,  he  had  seated  himself  in  an  easy-chair  at  a 
window,  when  the  sudden  closing  of  a  bookcase  in  a  far 
corner  of  the  room  drew  his  attention.  At  first  he  saw 

46 


THE   INNER   LAW 

only  a  mass  of  golden-brown  hair,  and  then  a  startled 
flushed  face  and  a  pair  of  wonderful  hazel  eyes  as  the 
owner,  a  girl  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  stood  up,  a 
cleaning-cloth  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  I — I  didn't  know  you  was  here!"  she  stammered. 
"Ma  tol'  me  not  to  bother  you.  I  didn't  see  you — 
thought  you  was  out  takin'  a  walk." 

"I've  just  come  in,"  he  explained.  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  here."  She  was  moving,  stumbling  as  she 
went,  toward  the  door,  and  he  detained  her.  "Don't 
stop  your  work.  I  can  read  on  the  porch.  I  was 
going  to  do  so,  anyway.  I  always  sit  there  at  this 
time  of  day." 

She  paused,  undecided.  "I've  got  plenty  o'  time,"  she 
said.  "It  don't  have  to  be  done  now,  nohow." 

"Neither  do  I  have  to  read  now,"  he  answered.  "I 
have  the  whole  day  before  me."  He  was  taking  in  her 
appearance  from  head  to  foot.  How  wonderfully  fresh 
and  pink  was  her  complexion!  How  erect  and  slender 
her  form!  Her  coarse,  untied  shoes  did  not  prevent  his 
seeing  that  her  feet  were  small  and  high  of  instep.  The 
hand  clutching  the  cleaning-cloth  was  tapering,  though 
the  skin  was  rough  and  tanned  from  outdoor  work. 
"You  are  Mrs.  Romley's  daughter,  I'm  sure,"  he  went 
on,  gently,  to  allay  her  embarrassment;  "but  I  don't 
know  your  Christian  name." 

"Lydia,"  she  answered,  going  back  to  the  bookcase 
and  picking  up  a  book  she  had  left  on  the  floor. 

"  'Lydia' — that's  a  pretty  name,"  he  said,  admiring  her 
rare  beauty  afresh. 

"I  don't  like  it  much,"  she  said,  as  she  wiped  the  book 
and  restored  it  to  a  shelf.  "I  don't  know  why  they  ever 
named  me  that.  I  never  saw  a  girl  called  by  it  that  I 
know  of.  Pa  used  to  call  me  Lyde,  for  short,  when  he 
was  alive." 

"They  must  call  you  Lydia;  that  is  better,"  he  said, 

47 


THE   INNER   LAW 

wisely.  "Have  you  read  any  of  these  books?"  He  in 
dicated  the  shelves  with  a  sweep  of  the  hand. 

"I  can't  read  nor  write,"  she  answered,  indifferently, 
as  she  took  down  another  volume  and  began  to  wipe  it. 
"I  hain't  never  been  to  school  none  at  all." 

"But  why?"  he  asked,  wonderingly. 

"  I  dun'no'.  I  just  hain't.  We  never  have  happened  to 
live  nigh  to  any  school,  an'  pa  was  a  great  hand  to  move 
about,  fust  one  place  an'  then  another,  wharever  he  could 
rent  land  handy.  He  never  could  read  hisself,  nor  sign 
his  name.  He  made  a  cross  mark,  an'  he  said  that  was 
enough.  Ma  never  could  read,  nuther." 

"But  you  are  missing  a  great  deal,"  he  said,  sincerely. 
"Really,  I  think  I  should  die  if  I  were  not  allowed  to 
read  the  thoughts  of  the  great  men  of  the  past  and  pres 
ent." 

She  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders.  He  noticed  her 
beautiful  neck  and  the  fine  poise  of  her  head  upon  it. 
"It  don't  bother  me,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  see  that 
reading  helps  much.  Look  at  all  these  books  of  Mr. 
Crof ton's.  He  kin  read  'em,  can't  he?  Well,  is  he  a 
happy  man?  I've  seed  a  few  men  in  my  time,  but  he 
is  the  most  miserable  one  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  Old  Hank 
out  thar  goes  about  singin'  half  the  time,  an*  I've  heard 
'im  shout  out  loud  as  he  was  comin'  home  from  a  nigger 
meetin',  an*  he  can't  read  a  line  in  a  book." 

"All  the  same,"  Carter  smiled,  "it  is  our  duty  to  edu 
cate  ourselves  if  it  is  in  our  power.  Say,  do  you  come 
here  often?" 

"Once  a  week,  on  cleaning-day,  to  he'p  ma." 

"I  see,  and  have  you  any  sort  of  school-book  at  home?" 

"I've  got  a  ABC  primer  Mr.  Crof  ton  gave  me  last  sum 
mer."  She  smiled,  as  if  amused.  "He  tried  to  git  me  to 
study  it.  Lordy!  it  was  awful!  He  axed  me  the  names 
of  the  letters  several  times  when  I  was  here,  but  he  soon 
let  me  alone.  I  reckon  I'm  a  hard  nut  to  crack.  Book- 

48 


THE    INNER   LAW 

learnin'  is  for  folks  that  kin  lie  around  idle,  but  I  hain't 
got  time.     I  have  to  work." 

"What  sort  of  work  do  you  do?"  he  inquired,  half 
amused. 

"I  work  in  the  garden-patch,"  she  said.  "We  got  ten 
acres  fer  our  own  use  around  our  cabin.  I  hoe,  spade  up 
ground,  cut  sprouts,  grub,  drap  seed-corn  an'  cotton.  I 
milk  the  cow,  an'  drive  'er  up  from  the  pasture.  I  go  to 
the  strip  o'  woods  back  o'  the  cabin  an'  chop  up  old  trees 
fer  the  fireplace.  I  split  kindlin',  an'  tote  it  an'  the  wood 
home.  I  churn  an'  make  butter.  I  feed  the  chickens  an' 
look  after  the  hens'  nests  to  keep  'em  from  settin'  an' 
sp'ilin'  the  eggs.  I  take  produce  to  the  store  an'  git 
barter  or  cash  fer  it.  Lordy!  I've  got  enough  to  do. 
Huh!  I  reckon  I  have!" 

"Still,  you  ought  to  learn  to  read  and  write,"  he  con 
tended.  "You  have  as  much  right  to  an  education  as — 
as,  well,  my  own  sister,  for  instance.  Have  you  ever  seen 
her?" 

"Yes,  twice."  The  girl  now  showed  more  animation. 
She  leaned  on  the  table,  her  red  lips  parting  over  fine 
white  teeth,  deep  dimples  showing  in  her  cheeks.  "She 
was  here  last  summer,  but  she  didn't  seem  to  have  much 
of  a  good  time.  No  beaus  round  here  rich  enough  fer 
'er,  I  reckon.  I  never  seed  'er  except  when  she  was  out 
walkin'  with  Mr.  Crofton.  They  stopped  at  the  cabin 
one  day,  an'  she  peeked  in  like  she  took  it  fer  a  hen 
house  or  a  chicken-coop.  I  listened  at  a  crack  as  they 
walked  off,  an'  heard  her  laughin'  an'  titterin'  an*  sayin' 
some'n  to  yore  uncle.  I  don't  know  what  she  was  talkin' 
about,  an'  I  don't  care.  I  know  I  didn't  like  'er  a  bit." 

"Oh,  you  didn't?"  he  laughed.  "Did  she  say  any 
thing  objectionable  ?" 

"I  don't  know  jest  what  you  mean.    She  looked  like 
she  was  afeard  sh'd  dirty  'er  fine  white  dress,  an'  she  had 
a  funny  sort  o'  tilt  to  'er  nose  like  she  was  smellm'  some'n 
4  49 


THE    INNER    LAW 

she  couldn't  stomach.  She  tried  to  poke  fun  at  me  in 
'er  high  an'  mighty  way.  She  axed  me  ef  I  knowed  I  was 
pretty,  an*  looked  all  about  the  cabin  an'  said,  'La! 
you  hain't  got  no  lookin'-glass !  Maybe  you  hain't  never 
got  a  good  look  at  yorese'f.'  Ef  Mr.  Crofton  hadn't  been 
close  by  I'd  'a'  give  'er  a  piece  o'  my  mind,  so  I  would — 
comin'  thar  in  'er  fine  town  duds,  makin'  fun  o'  me  in 
my  rags." 

Carter  had  risen  and  now  stood  close  to  the  girl.  "You 
must  not  be  unfair  to  her,"  he  said,  firmly.  "Sis  is  cold 
and  stiff  on  a  first  meeting,  but  really  she  was  not  making 
fun.  You  are  pretty,  Lydia — there  is  no  getting  around 
that  fact.  You  are  very,  very  pretty.  Really,  I  don't 
know  of  a  girl  in  Atlanta  who  has  half  your  good  looks." 

"You  are  pokin'  fun,  too,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sus 
picious  toss  of  the  head.  "I  know  how  I  look.  Thar's 
plenty  o'  lookin'-glasses  in  this  house,  ef  we  hain't  got 
none  at  home,  an*  I've  had  to  clean  'em  often  enough, 
an*  seed  myself  at  it.  They  say  fine  feathers  make  fine 
birds,  an'  I  hain't  had  nothin1  but  rags  on  since  I  kin 
remember." 

"It  is  not  really  the  clothes,  in  your  case,"  he  said, 
admiringly.  "You  are  simply  stunning  without  adorn 
ment.  But  to  come  back  to  that  primer  uncle  gave 
you.  Promise  me  that  you  will  study  the  letters  when 
you  go  home,  and  the  next  time  you  come  here  I'll  see 
how  well  you  know  them.  Will  you  do  it?" 

She  avoided  his  ardent  gaze.  There  was  something 
exquisite  about  her  profile,  the  curves  of  her  pink  lips, 
and  the  long  heavy  lashes  which  fell  over  her  dark, 
somnolent  eyes  and  lay  lightly  against  her  glowing  skin. 
She  made  no  response  and  he  repeated  his  question. 
Emboldened  by  he  knew  not  what,  he  bent  down  over 
her  and,  with  his  hand  tinder  her  firm  chin,  he  forced  her 
to  look  at  him. 

"Will  you  promise?"  he  asked. 

50 


THE    INNER    LAW 

' '  Why  do  you  want  me  to  ? "  She  pushed  his  hand  away, 
but  not  angrily. 

"Because  I  am  asking  you  as  a  friend — a  new  friend 
who  wishes  well  by  you,  Lydia.  You  seem  not  to  approve 
of  town  people,  judging  by  your  impression  of  my  sister. 
Do  you  dislike  me?" 

She  hesitated.  She  was  looking  straight  at  him  now. 
He  saw  a  charming  flush  creep  up  her  pulsing  neck,  fill 
her  cheeks,  and  mount  to  her  eyes. 

"Huh!  that's  different!"  she  said,  evasively.  "She's 
a  woman,  an'  she's  stuck  up.  She  can't  hide  it.  Sugar 
wouldn't  melt  in  'er  mouth." 

"Well,  we'll  leave  sis  out  of  it,"  he  said,  taking  the 
little  rough  hand  and  holding  it  in  his  own,  feeling  the 
warm  fingers  throb.  "'This  is  just  between  you  and  me, 
Lydia.  I  want  you  to  study  those  letters.  If  I  can 
teach  you  to  read  a  little  this  summer  while  I  am  here 
you  will  thank  me  all  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  do  it?"  Unconsciously  she 
pressed  his  fingers,  and  then  quickly  drew  her  hand  away 
as  if  suddenly  aware  of  the  impulse  she  had  obeyed. 

"Yes,  I'm  in  earnest,"  he  answered,  "very,  very  much 
in  earnest." 

Again  she  averted  her  face.  She  seemed  to  be  strug 
gling  with  an  odd  sort  of  pride  which  he  could  not  com 
prehend.  Suddenly  she  sighed  deeply,  turned  to  him 
and  said: 

"All  right,  I'll  try.  You'll  find  out  that  I'm  a  regular 
blockhead,  but  I'll  do  the  best  I  kin.  It  will  be  a  hard 
job.  I  hate  the  sight  of  a  book,  but  I'll  tackle  them 
letters." 

"Then  it's  a  bargain,"  he  said,  warmly,  and,  taking 
her  hand  again,  he  pressed  it  firmly.  He  wanted  to  kiss 
it — he  wanted  to  put  his  arm  about  her,  but  refrained. 

He  left  her  at  her  work  and  went  for  a  walk  along  the 
mountain  road.  His  blood  was  tingling  in  his  veins. 


THE   INNER   LAW 

Something  new  and  strange  had  happened  to  him.  His 
body  seemed  charged  with  fresh  energy,  and  he  fairly 
bounded  along  the  road.  He  tried  to  think  of  his  epic, 
as  had  been  his  habit  on  such  walks,  but  not  a  line  of  it 
came  to  his  mind.  He  could  think  only  of  Lydia — of  her 
face,  her  eyes,  her  form,  her  musical  voice,  her  throbbing 
hand.  Could  he  be  in  love?  Had  the  divine  passion  at 
last  kindled  in  his  veins?  And  why  not?  Had  any  true 
poet  ever  been  restrained  by  the  condition  in  which  he 
found  his  love?  He  thought  of  the  great  Rousseau  and 
his  unlettered  mistress,  and  how  the  two  had  sat  together 
till  far  into  the  night,  blissfully  happy. 

He  curtailed  his  walk,  returning  home  at  least  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual.  With  unconscious  stealth  of  eye  and 
movement  he  took  in  the  various  rooms,  only  to  find  that 
Lydia  was  no  longer  about  the  house.  He  fancied,  and  it 
came  with  a  little  shock  of  disappointment,  that  she  had 
already  finished  her  work  and  gone  home.  Meeting  her 
mother  in  the  hallway,  he  started  impulsively  to  inquire 
about  the  girl,  but  a  lurking  intuition  checked  him,  and 
he  passed  on  without  speaking.  He  went  into  the  library 
and  picked  up  a  book,  only  to  lay  it  down.  He  had 
loved  it  once,  but  now  it  was  a  cold,  unresponsive  thing. 
Then  he  bethought  himself  of  the  side  porch,  and  the 
view  from  it  of  the  field  and  meadow  lying  between  the 
house  and  the  cabin  occupied  by  Mrs.  Romley,  and, 
stepping  through  the  window  upon  the  porch,  he  was  re 
warded  by  a  sight  of  the  girl  as  she  slowly  trudged  home 
ward  along  a  meadow  path.  How  erectly  she  walked,  and 
with  what  natural  ease  and  grace!  The  sunlight  fell  on 
the  rich,  long  hair  which  hung  down  beneath  the  simple 
straw  hat.  Oh,  she  was  beautiful — beautiful!  Beautiful 
of  body  and  pure  of  soul!  She  was  a  revelation  to  him, 
he  declared — the  incarnation  of  an  intangible  personality 
dropped  from  the  infinite.  He  fairly  held  his  breath  as 
he  watched  her  moving  in  and  out  among  the  bushes  till 

52 


THE   INNER   LAW 

she  vanished.  Duty  called  him  to  his  work  in  the  library, 
but  now  it  was  all  but  repugnant  to  him.  His  whole 
young  being  was  aflame  with  fires,  the  warmth  of  which 
he  was  feeling  for  the  first  time.  Stepping  out  on  the 
lawn,  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  grass  and  buried 
his  hot  face  in  the  cool  blades. 

"Wonderful,  wonderful!"  he  exulted.     "I'm  in  love, 
in  love — actually  in  love!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  was  returning  from  one  of  his  long  walks  on  the 
mountain  road  one  morning  when  he  saw,  approaching 
from  behind,  a  sleek,  richly  harnessed  pair  of  black  horses, 
drawing  a  fine  carriage  which,  besides  the  negro  driver 
on  the  seat  in  front,  held  only  a  single  occupant.  He  had 
concluded  that  it  was  some  one  unknown  to  him  and  was 
walking  on,  when  he  suddenly  heard  his  name  called 
out  merrily. 

"Hello!    Well  here  you  are,  you  dreamy  star-gazer!" 
Turning,  he  recognized  the  speaker  as  Charles  Farn- 
ham,  his  most  intimate  friend,  and  his  father's  associate 
in  the  new  railroad  which  Farnham  was  promoting. 

"Hello!"  he  returned,  quite  pleased  by  the  encounter. 
"What  are  you  doing  up  here  so  far  above  sea-level? 
You  are  not  trying  to  get  a  right-of-way  through  here, 
are  you?" 

"Hardly,  but  I  did  hope  to  see  you  while  I  was  up  this 
way.  I  had  to  go  to  Benton  on  railroad  business,  and 
am  now  on  my  way  to  your  uncle's  to  see  you.  Say,  do 
you  want  to  ride,  or  shall  we  walk  down  this  slope?  I'm 
fairly  stiff  from  sitting  so  long." 

"Let's  walk,"  Carter  said.  "It's  fine  along  here." 
"I  might  know  you'd  say  that,  you  peripatetic  poet. 
Drive  on,  Luke,  and  wait  for  us  at  the  bottom,"  said  Farn 
ham,  who  was  tall,  about  thirty  years  of  age,  well  built, 
and  richly  dressed.  He  descended  to  the  ground,  clasping 
Carter's  hand  as  he  did  so.  The  driver  started  his  horses 
down  the  slope  and  the  two  friends  fell  in  leisurely  behind. 

54 


THE   INNER   I,AW 

"Yes,  I  wanted  to  see  you."  Farnham's  blue  eyes 
twinkled  with  interest,  and  he  put  his  ringed  hand  fa 
miliarly  on  Carter's  shoulder.  "  I  often  laugh  when  I  think 
about  you  and  me.  I  don't  mean  to  underrate  you  at  all, 
but  there  is  almost  ten  years  difference  in  our  ages,  I 
know  I  was  a  mere  boy  in  experience  at  your  age,  but  here 
I  am  to-day,  while  handling  men  of  big  capital  of  fifty 
and  sixty  years  of  age  in  New  York,  Boston,  and  Philadel 
phia — here  I  am  coming  to  you,  young  as  you  are,  as 
actually  the  most  important  man  of  all  my  business 
associates." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Carter  asked,  perplexed 
over  the  evident  sincerity  of  his  friend's  tone. 

"Well,  I  mean  that  the  investment  your  father  made 
in  my  railroad  is  a  big  enough  slice  of  the  whole  thing  to 
make  any  man  important  in  my  eyes  at  least.  Money 
goes  a  long  way  with  me,  I  confess." 

"Well,  what  has  that  to  do  with  me?"  Carter  asked. 

"I  see  it  is  as  I  suspected,"  Farnham  went  on,  still 
smiling.  "He  hasn't  told  you  about  it,  and  I  have  a 
surprise  for  you.  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  he  means 
this  railroad  stock  to  go  to  you?" 

"I  did  not,"  Carter  returned.  "He  seldom  speaks  to 
me  of  his  business." 

"Well,  he  has  to  me,"  Farnham  replied.  "He  talks 
more  freely  to  me,  I  think,  than  to  any  one  else.  What 
do  you  think  of  this?  He  made  out  his  will  in  my  office 
the  other  day.  In  fact,  I  was  a  witness  to  his  signature. 
By  George !  it  took  me  off  my  feet !  I  hadn't  the  least  idea 
he  was  worth  what  he  is.  But  the  thing  that  pleased 
me  most  of  all  was  that  he  is  leaving  you  the  entire  in 
terest  in  my  railroad  over  and  above  your  equal  share 
with  your  brother  and  sister  in  the  remainder  of  the 
estate.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,  and  I'm  saying 
it  without  any  ax  to  grind  in  the  matter,  for  your  father's 
money  is  paid  in  already,  and  I  have  nothing  to  gain  one 

55 


THE    INNER   LAW 

way  or  the  other.  We  are  friends,  and  I  glory  in  your 
good  luck,  so  I'm  going  to  give  you  some  inside,  confiden 
tial  news.  My  plans  have  worked  out  better  than  I  could 
have  hoped  at  the  start.  Your  railroad  stock  is  already 
worth  two  for  one  in  the  eyes  of  any  man  who  knows 
what  a  safe  investment  is." 

"Is  it  possible?"  Carter  exclaimed  in  slow  surprise. 

"Not  only  that,  my  boy" — Farnham  was  smiling  and 
stroking  his  yellow  mustache — "but  even  greater  things 
still  are  in  the  wind  in  our  favor.  I've  said  nothing  about 
this  even  to  your  father.  The  truth  is,  he  talks  too  freely 
of  late  about  his  private  matters,  and  I  don't  want  any 
one  to  know  this  yet.  He  is  overworking  and  needs  a 
rest  badly,  so  I  say  I  have  not  confided  in  him;  but  I 
will  tell  you.  In  fact,  I  feel  now  that  you  are  the  chief  one 
for  me  to  consult  in  the  matter  as  the  largest  stockholder 
next  to  myself  in  the  company.  The  other  thing  in  the 
wind  is  this:  The  W.  L.  &  S.  road  went  into  the  hands  of 
a  receiver  the  other  day.  It  is  in  a  terrible  condition,  and 
there  are  no  ready  funds  behind  it.  Now,  the  A.  S.  &  C., 
the  main  trunk  line  from  St.  Louis  to  Savannah,  you 
know,  need  a  short  cut  through  these  mountains,  and 
have  their  eye  on  the  W.  L.  &  S.  property;  but  it  is  tied 
up  awfully  and  cannot  be  sold  outright.  Only  the  re 
mainder  of  a  ninety-nine  -  year  lease  is  for  sale,  and 
the  A.  S.  &  C.  want  to  actually  own  their  line  from  end 
to  end." 

"I  see,"  Carter  said;  "and  you  think—" 

"I  am  sure  they  will  have  to  buy  us  out,  or  take  us  in 
with  them  almost  at  our  own  valuation.  Their  directors 
are  to  meet  ours  in  Atlanta  early  next  month,  and  then 
something  will  be  done.  Shall  you  be  home  then?" 

"I  hardly  know,"  Carter  said.  "I  want  to  finish  some 
work  here.  What  you  say  is  very  interesting,  but  I'm 
afraid  I'm  not  really  a  business  man  at  heart.  I've  chosen 
this  profession,  you  see,  and  I  want  to  make  the  best  of 

56 


THE    INNER   LAW 

it.  To  be  frank,  business  and  social  affairs  seem  to  up 
set  me.  Since  I've  been  out  here  with  my  uncle  I  have 
felt  more  like  doing  good  work  than  ever  before/' 

"I  see,"  Farnham  nodded,  sympathetically,  "and  you 
may  be  right.  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  you  are  actual 
ly  the  most  fortunate  chap  I  ever  met?  People  all  over 
the  State  are  talking  about  you.  If  you  don't  have  an 
ideal  life  it  will  be  your  own  fault.  Your  dream  has  al 
ways  been  to  live  in  Europe,  you  say.  Well,  you  can  do 
it.  You  won't  have  to  think  of  where  the  money  is  com 
ing  from,  and  your  writing  and  reading  will  keep  your 
mind  occupied.  By  George!  you  are  fortunate!  I 
couldn't  possibly  imagine  a  more  lucky  man.  You  are 
young  and  good-looking;  you  have  health,  strength,  and 
brains;  women  will  adore  you;  you  will  be  the  pet  of 
every  drawing-room.  Your  talent  and  standing  will  ad 
mit  you  to  the  very  cream  of  society  in  Europe  as  well 
as  America." 

"You  are  rubbing  it  on,"  Carter  said,  with  a  flush  he 
tried  to  subdue.  "I  have  done  nothing  worth  while  so 
far.  I've  yet  to  prove  myself,  and  I  am  going  to  pin 
down  to  work.  I  may  stay  here  till  winter.  It  all  de 
pends  on  the  progress  I  make.  I  am  doing  a  lot  of  help 
ful  reading  and  making  plenty  of  notes  for  future  use." 

"Well,  I'll  not  bother  you  with  the  business  end  often," 
Farnham  smiled.  "We've  been  good  friends,  and  it 
pleases  me  somehow  to  know  that  a  scheme  born  in  my 
brain  is  to  benefit  you  so  substantially.  Money-making 
is  my  ambition,  and  poetry  is  yours.  I'll  swear  we  are 
an  oddly  yoked  pair.  I  believe  we  are  both  going  to 
win,  and  win  big." 

Carter  laughed.  "I  know  you  are,  anyway,"  he  said. 
"And  if  I  fail  it  won't  be  for  lack  of  application  and  hard 
work." 

They  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  slope,  and  half  a  mile 
away  saw  the  roof  of  the  farm-house.  Farnham  caught 

57 


THE    INNER    LAW 

the  driver's  backward  glance  and  motioned  him  to  drive 
on.  Presently  they  came  to  the  cabin  occupied  by  Mrs. 
Romley  and  her  daughter,  and  in  front  of  it,  in  a  little 
garden-patch,  with  a  hoe  in  her  hands,  stood  Lydia. 
Carter's  heart  bounded  at  the  sight  of  her,  but,  fearing 
that  his  friend  might  read  his  thoughts,  he  refrained 
from  looking  at  her. 

"I  see  a  well  there,"  Farnham  said.  "I'm  dying  for 
some  water.  I  suppose  that  young  woman  there  would 
give  us  a  drink." 

"Yes,"  Carter  answered,  hesitatingly;  "it  is  on  my 
uncle's  property.  The  mother  of  this  girl  is  his  house 
keeper." 

* '  Oh,  I  see, ' '  said  Farnham.   ' '  Well,  suppose  you  ask  her. ' ' 

"I'll  draw  it  myself,"  Carter  answered. 

There  was  no  fence  between  them  and  the  cabin.  It 
was  a  crude,  one-room  affair  made  of  rough  pine  poles 
with  the  bark  on  them.  It  had  a  chimney  formed  of 
logs  at  the  base  and  a  pen  of  clay  and  sticks  at  the  top. 

As  they  drew  near  her,  Lydia  turned,  and  for  the  first 
time  saw  them.  Her  sunbonnet  was  pushed  well  back 
upon  her  head,  exposing  her  face,  which  had  suddenly 
flushed  crimson. 

"We  want  some  water,"  Carter  said.  "Don't  bother; 
we'll  draw  it." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  Carter  passed  on  to  the  well, 
noticing  that  Farnham,  who  was  almost  reluctantly  fol 
lowing  him,  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  Lydia.  While  Carter 
was  drawing  the  water  from  the  well,  Farnham  stood 
watching  the  girl  with  undisguised  admiration.  The 
bucket  was  up,  and  Carter  had  rested  it  on  the  stone 
curb,  and  was  looking  about  for  a  dipper,  when  Lydia 
went  hastily  into  the  cabin  and  came  out  with  a  goblet, 
which  she  placed  by  the  bucket. 

"Won't  you  have  some?"  Farnham  tipped  his  hat, 
smiled,  and  started  to  fill  the  glass. 

58 


THE    INNER    LAW 

"No,  I  don't  want  none,"  she  said;  and  she  turned 
back  into  the  cabin,  where  she  remained  out  of  sight. 

Farnham  drank,  but  Carter  declined.  He  felt  an  un 
easy  desire  to  get  away  from  the  spot — to  prevent  this 
man  of  the  world  from  broaching  a  subject  which  he  felt 
intuitively  would  be  broached.  He  knew  the  man  in 
timately,  and  felt  that  there  were  certain  ideals  concerning 
womankind  to  which  he  could  never  rise.  Farnham's 
bold  and  even  amorous  stare  at  Lydia  had  offended  him; 
his  pausing  now  when  there  was  no  excuse  for  lingering 
was  also  annoying. 

"I  think  I'll  leave  the  glass  at  the  door,"  Farnham  said, 
with  a  significant  smile.  "I'd  like  to  thank  that  little 
witch." 

"  Leave  it  where  it  is,"  Carter  replied,  coldly.  "  Let's  go 
on.  You've  got  to  stay  for  dinner,  and  rest  your  horses." 

"Yes,  yes,  I'll  stay.  I  want  to  chat  with  your  uncle. 
I  can  drive  on  in  the  cool  part  of  the  afternoon." 

Carter  saw  him  glance  back  at  the  cabin  several  times 
as  they  walked  along  the  road.  Presently  Farnham  ex 
haled  a  deep  breath.  "By  George!"  he  exclaimed. 
"That  is  by  long  odds  the  most  luscious  little  trick  I  ever 
laid  eyes  on.  She'd  turn  the  hearts  of  kings,  alter  the 
fate  of  nations,  with  those  eyes  and  that  pouting  mouth, 
and  you  say  her  mother  is  a  working-woman.  You  can 
see  from  her  speech  that  she  is  of  the  lowest  class  herself. 
'  No,  I  don't  want  none !'  How  could  such  an  expression 
as  that  come  from  such  matchless  lips  as  hers?" 

"She  is  hardly  more  than  a  child,"  Carter  said,  still 
coldly.  "She  has  had  no  chances.  She  can't — I  under 
stand  from  my  uncle — that  she  can't  read  or  write.  She 
has  had  no  chances.  Her  father's  dead  and  her  mother 
doesn't  seem  to  bother  about  her  education." 

Farnham  nodded.  He  was  covertly  watching  his 
friend's  profile  and  suppressed  a  shrewd  smile.  "  Do  you 
happen  to  know  what  her  name  is?"  he  asked. 

59 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"Romley.    That's  her  mother's  name." 

"Ah,  I  see."  Farnham  spelled,  "  R-a-m-1-e-i-g-h.  That 
accounts  for  her  beauty.  I've  read  somewhere,  and  I've 
observed  it  myself,  that  many  of  these  scrub  mountain 
people  are  direct  descendants  of  the  bluest  blood  of  Eng 
land.  This  girl's  name,  no  doubt,  was  originally  Ram- 
leigh.  For  all  we  know  she  may  be  a  physical  reproduc 
tion  of  some  far-off  earl's  daughter  with  royal  blood  in 
her  veins,  and  grace  and  beauty  in  every  limb  and  fea 
ture.  And  her  fate,  my  Lord!  her  fate!" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Carter  demanded,  almost 
sharply. 

Farnham  swept  the  face  of  his  friend  with  his  pene 
trating  and  still  cautious  glance.  "Why,  it  will  be  hard 
for  her  anyway  it  turns  out.  Two  things  can  happen  to 
her,  and  both  will  be  deplorable  enough,  if  one  is  silly 
enough  to  look  at  it  sentimentally.  She  will  either  marry 
some  rustic,  tobacco-spitting  lout  who  will  make  a  slave 
of  her,  load  her  down  with  screaming  babies  and  hard 
work,  or  the  other  thing  will  take  place.  By  the  way, 
the  last  is  most  likely." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Carter  answered,  con 
siderably  nettled.  He  was  becoming  angry,  and  yet  was 
ashamed  to  betray  it  to  this  man  of  varied  experience, 
who,  in  a  certain  sense,  had  a  right  to  his  opinion. 

"Oh  no,  you  don't  know  what  I  mean,  of  course." 
Farnham  now  allowed  himself  to  laugh  sarcastically. 
"I've  lived  in  these  mountains  myself,  and  I  know  what 
the  average  sons  of  well-to-do  planters  are  like.  The  fact 
that  this  girl  has  no  father,  that  her  mother  is  a  woman 
who  will  leave  such  a  daughter  unprotected  here  all  day, 
is  enough  to  prove  my  point.  The  inevitable  will  have 
to  happen,  and  that  very  soon.  The  girl  is  only  human, 
and,  judging  from  that  tempting  mouth  of  hers  and  that 
wonderful  development  of  body,  she  is  a  natural,  pas 
sionate  woman." 

60 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Carter  drew  back  coldly.  He  was  still  angry  and  try 
ing  to  hide  it.  "You  know  I  do  not  agree  with  you  on 
these  lines,  Farnham,"  he  said.  "I  believe  in  the  innate 
virtue  of  women,  high  or  low." 

"I  know  you  do."  Farnham  smiled,  and  laid  his  hand 
caressingly  on  Carter's  shoulder.  "That  is  the  poet  in 
you.  You  are  still  a  boy,  and  a  remarkably  pure-minded 
one.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  like  me — really  I  don't. 
I'm  having  my  fling,  but  I  sha'n't  always  keep  it  up. 
One  of  these  days  I'll  settle  down.  I'll  marry  the  right 
sort  of  woman  and  make  as  good  a  husband  and  father  as 
the  average  man.  You  will  have  your  fling,  too.  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  poet  that  didn't?  Oh  yes,  you  will  wake 
up  one  of  these  days  and  smile  as  you  look  back  on  your 
present  rather  callow  frame  of  mind.  You  couldn't  be 
a  Crofton  and  act  otherwise.  I'll  give  you  another  twelve 
months.  No,  I  won't,  either" — here  Farnham  glanced 
back  at  the  cabin  and  softly  laughed — "if  you  spend  the 
summer  here  I'll  be  your  Father  Confessor  in  the  fall." 

Carter  frowned  and  the  flush  in  his  face  deepened. 
"The  trouble  with  you  is  that  you  have  a  foul  mind," 
he  said,  sharply.  "You  may  not  know  it,  but  you  have." 

Farnham  again  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 
"Pardon  me,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "You  are  too  young 
and  full  of  dreams  now  to  understand  what  I  mean,  but 
you  will  later.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  really  think  the 
Puritanical  ideas  in  this  so-called  land  of  the  free  are 
robbing  our  men  of  all  personal  liberty.  Frankly,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  meet  in  all  Europe  a  rich  young 
poet  of  aristocratic  birth  with  the  flabby  sexual  ideas  of  a 
mountain  Methodist  parson.  I  have  never  had  patience 
with  such  views.  I  have  mixed  red-blooded,  normal  pleas 
ure  with  every  bit  of  success  I've  had.  I  closed  a  big  land 
deal  once  with  a  man  whose  stunning,  daredevil  wife  and 
I —  Oh,  but  never  mind.  I  don't  want  to  shock  you. 
You  are  a  boy  yet — you  really  are." 

61 


THE    INNER   LAW 

They  were  nearing  the  farm-house  now,  and  saw 
Thomas  Crofton  coming  to  the  gate  to  meet  them. 

"Ask  that  old  chap  to  tell  you  some  of  his  college  ex 
periences,"  Farnham  chuckled.  "I've  heard  my  father 
say  he  was  the  wildest  young  buck  he  ever  knew.  He 
talks  like  a  saint  now,  but  he  certainly  was  on  the  turf 
at  one  time.  Well,  King  David,  who  gave  us  many  of  the 
Psalms,  was  worse  than  I  ever  was.  The  great  Solomon 
was  the  result  of  conduct  that  would  deprive  a  man  of 
club  membership  in  any  country  to-day." 


CHAPTER  X 

A  MONTH  passed.  There  was  only  one  thing  which 
/"Y.  stood  between  Carter  Crofton  and  peace  and  content 
ment,  and  that  was  his  unexpected  inability  to  do  actual 
productive  work.  Periodical  spells  of  moroseness  attacked 
him,  and  he  was  constantly  haunted  by  the  fear  that  his 
muse  had  permanently  deserted  him.  There  had  been  only 
one  palliative  to  these  miserable  moments,  and  that  was 
his  frequent,  almost  daily,  visits  to  Lydia's  cabin  and  the 
helpful  lessons  he  had  given  her  in  reading  and  writing. 
He  had  not  actually  wondered  over  the  fact  that  these  visits 
had  been  clandestine,  though  he  remembered  the  relief  and 
satisfaction  he  had  experienced  when  she  had  somewhat 
reluctantly  complied  with  his  adroit  request  not  to  inform 
her  mother  of  his  coming.  It  pleased  his  fancy  to  feel 
that  they  had  such  a  sweet  secret  between  them.  Whose 
business  was  it  but  their  own,  anyway?  he  often  asked 
himself,  and  so  he  never  went  to  the  cabin  without  being 
sure  that  his  uncle  was  away  and  that  Mrs.  Romley  was 
occupied  with  her  duties  at  the  farm-house.  Lydia  had 
grown  more  beautiful  mentally  and  physically,  and  she 
was  learning  rapidly.  He  believed,  in  a  certain  way, 
that  his  feeling  for  her  was  love  of  the  highest  type,  and 
yet,  somehow,  he  had  never  quite  thought  of  her  as  his 
future  wife.  That  vaguely  seemed  out  of  the  question, 
a  desired  thing  not  to  be  realized.  It  could  not  be,  and 
yet  he  told  himself  that  he  had  every  natural  right  to 
love  her  as  he  did,  and  even  to  rejoice  in  her  love;  and 
she  loved  him;  he  was  sure  of  that.  She  had  shown  it  in 

63 


THE   INNER   LAW 

many  ways.  That  fact  had  given  him  joy  unspeakable, 
and  the  strangest  thing  in  it  all  was  that  he  had  never 
allowed  himself  to  look  ahead  to  the  time  when  their  in 
evitable  separation  would  bring  unhappiness  to  them 
both,  to  her  more  than  to  himself,  for  whom  the  attrac 
tions  and  triumphs  of  the  great  outside  world  were  wait 
ing.  He  took  the  thought  of  her  with  him  in  all  his 
mountain  rambles;  she  was  in  his  mind  when  he  went  to 
sleep  at  night.  She  haunted  his  dreams.  Her  childlike  de 
pendence  on  him  was  inexpressibly  sweet.  Her  profound 
ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  world  at  large,  her  soft,  crude 
speech,  were  full  of  charm  to  him,  and  he  delighted  in  tell 
ing  her  of  what  he  had  seen,  heard,  and  read.  She  was 
to  be  the  chief  sylvan  figure  in  the  great  poem  he  was  to 
write  before  long. 

There  was  something  pitiful  in  her  effort  to  make  her 
self  attractive  in  her  poor  rags  and  the  few  soiled  ribbons 
she  possessed.  One  day  he  found  her  wearing  a  pair  of 
new  shoes  which  her  mother  had  bought  at  the  country 
store.  They  were  heavy,  clumsy  in  appearance,  and  ill- 
fitting,  and  yet  he  saw  that  she  was  pleased  to  have  them. 
He  thought  of  the  beautiful  garments,  only  slightly  worn, 
which  he  had  seen  his  sister  sell  to  the  negroes  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  how  they  would  become  the  poor  girl, 
and  yet  he  never  spoke  to  Lydia  of  her  clothes,  telling 
himself  that  his  flower  of  the  forest  was  beautiful  enough 
as  he  had  found  her. 

One  afternoon  he  went  through  the  woods  that  he  might 
not  be  seen  by  any  one  on  the  road,  and  crept  up  close  to 
the  front  of  the  cabin  without  being  noticed  by  her.  She 
was  seated  on  the  door-step,  studying  the  book  he  had 
brought  her  on  his  last  visit.  For  several  minutes  he 
stood  hidden  in  the  little  thicket,  feasting  his  eyes  upon 
her.  Then  something  happened  which  filled  him  with 
joy.  She  suddenly  put  down  the  book  on  the  step  and, 
standing  up,  stared  anxiously  along  the  road  toward  the 

64 


THE    INNER   LAW 

farm-house.  He  held  his  breath  in  the  sheer  delight  of 
the  moment,  for  he  heard  her  sighing. 

"She  thinks  I'm  not  coming  to-day,"  he  chuckled,  "the 
dear,  dear  girl!" 

Then  he  moved  around  through  the  bushes  so  softly 
that  she  was  unaware  of  his  nearness,  and  managed  to 
hide  himself  from  her  view  behind  a  tall  ash-hopper  close 
to  the  wall  of  the  cabin.  He  heard  her  sigh  again,  and 
then  she  turned  back  and  went  into  the  cabin.  He  heard 
her  move  about  over  the  rough  floor,  and  soon  she  came 
out  with  her  arms  full  of  clothes  to  be  washed.  There 
was  a  big  tub  on  a  bench  near  the  well,  and  into  it  she 
put  the  things,  pressing  them  down,  firmly.  Then  she 
turned  to  the  windlass  and  began  to  lower  the  bucket 
into  the  well.  She  was  drawing  it  up  when  he  suddenly 
ran  up  from  behind. 

"Booh!"  he  cried,  playfully.  "You  pretty  little  thief! 
What  do  you  mean  by  stealing  my  water?" 

She  was  so  startled  that  she  released  the  handle  of  the 
windlass  and  with  a  whir  of  the  rope  the  bucket  fell  back 
into  the  well.  Her  color  ran  high,  enhancing  her  beauty, 
as  it  always  did  in  his  eyes.  She  gave  him  a  shy,  warm 
look  of  delight,  and  then,  grasping  the  windlass,  she 
started  to  wind  the  rope  up. 

"Let  me,"  he  cried,  catching  hold  of  it,  his  hands 
touching  hers. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  firmly,  still  holding  the  handle. 
"Yousha'n't!" 

"I  sha'n't?"  he  laughed.  "Who  are  you  ordering 
about,  you  beautiful  young  siren?  Let  go  or  I'll  kiss  you. 
I  swear  I  will." 

"You  won't — you  won't  dare  to!"  she  answered. 

"I'll  show  you,  if  you  don't  let  go,"  he  said,  pale  with 
passion.  For  a  moment  their  eyes  met,  and  then  she 
released  the  handle  of  the  windlass  and  stood  aside,  her 
beautiful  lips  pulsing  and  twitching,  her  wonderful  eyes 

5  6S 


THE    INNER   LAW 

full  of  the  flames  he  liked  to  see  and  trace  to  their  source. 
He  drew  up  the  water,  laughing  triumphantly  as  he  did 
so.  "Now  where  shall  I  pour  it?"  he  asked. 

' '  In  the  tub, "  she  said.    * '  The  clothes  have  got  to  soak. ' ' 

He  emptied  the  bucket  and  drew  it  up  full  several 
times,  with  boyish  pride  in  showing  that  he  could  do 
manual  labor  when  it  was  necessary. 

"That's  enough,"  she  said,  presently.  "Look  how 
you've  splattered  yore  clothes.  You  are  soakin'  wet." 

* '  It  doesn't  matter, ' '  he  answered.  He  noticed  the  book 
she  had  left  on  the  step,  and,  pointing  at  it  playfully,  he 
said,  "Get  that  book  and  let  me  hear  you  read  the  first 
chapter." 

"I  won't  do  it,"  she  said,  firmly,  a  rebellious  expression 
in  her  eyes. 

"Why  won't  you?" 

"Because  you'll  laugh  as  you  did  t'other  day." 

"No,  I  won't;  on  my  honor  I  won't.     Get  the  book." 

"I  hain't  the  time,"  she  said.  "I've  got  my  work  to 
do.  I've  got  to  make  a  fire  under  the  pot  to  boil  some  o' 
the  clothes."  She  glanced  at  the  three-legged  iron  vessel 
which,  raised  on  flat  stones,  stood  near  the  tub. 

"Then  I'll  make  the  fire,"  he  said.  "I've  got  some 
matches.  I  can  soon  start  one.  I'm  a  good  hand  at 
fire-building.  I  was  at  a  camp  last  summer  up  in  Maine 
with  some  Boston  fellows.  We  learned  all  about  wood 
craft.  I  started  a  fire  once  with  only  some  dry  leaves 
and  a  sun-glass.  Wise  as  you  are,  you  little  minx,  I'll 
bet  you've  never  seen  that  done.  But  a  match  will  have 
to  do  to-day.  Get  me  a  piece  of  paper." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  indifferently.  "Huh!"  she 
ejaculated.  "We  don't  need  no  match  or  paper.  I'll 
bring  a  shovelful  o'  coals  from  the  chimney  and  some  o' 
the  dry  kindlin'-wood  on  the  hearth." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  crestfallen.  "Of  course  that  will  save 
time." 

66 


THE    INNER    LAW 

She  turned  into  the  cabin,  and  he  followed  her.  She 
took  up  the  iron  shovel  and  filled  it  with  live  coals. 

"Let  me,"  he  said. 

"No;  you'll  drop  'em  on  the  floor,"  she  protested.  "I 
know  how  to  do  it  better'n  you  do.  A  body  has  to  tote 
'em  powerful  steady." 

"Then  I'll  bring  some  kindling,"  he  said,  and  he  picked 
up  several  pieces  of  the  rich  pine  sticks  which  lay  in  the 
chimney-corner. 

She  carried  the  coals  out  and  put  them  under  the  pot 
and  allowed  him  to  lay  the  pine  upon  them.  She  turned 
back  to  the  windlass. 

"Now  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"Draw  up  some  water  and  fill  the  pot,"  she  answered, 
beginning  to  lower  the  bucket. 

"Let  me!"  he  cried,  catching  hold  of  the  handle,  his 
hands  against  hers. 

"No;  git  away — it  11  fly  back  an'  hit  you,"  she  warned 
him. 

"Let  loose,  Lydia,"  he  demanded,  his  face  close  to  hers. 
"Let  loose  or  I'll  kiss  you." 

Their  eyes  met,  each  could  feel  the  heat  of  the  other's 
face.  She  had  given  in  and  stood  aside  before,  but  some 
thing  prevented  it  now — something  she  could  not  have 
fathomed.  She  held  on  tightly.  His  face  changed.  If 
he  could  have  seen  his  reflection  in  a  glass  at  that  instant 
he  would  have  thought  he  resembled  his  brother  Henry 
more  than  ever  before.  His  veins  rose;  his  lips  were 
full  and  quivering.  He  was  panting.  He  was  aflame 
from  head  to  foot.  His  neck  was  crimson  and  seemed 
too  large  for  his  collar. 

"I've  given  you  fair  warning,"  he  said,  almost  fiercely, 
and  swallowing  as  he  spoke.  "I'm  going  to  count  three, 
and  if  you  don't  let  go  I'll  kiss  you  on  those  maddening 
lips  of  yours  or  die  trying.  One,  two,  three!" 

Lowering  her  head,  she  clutched  the  handle  defiantly. 

6? 


THE   INNER   LAW 

With  a  grunt,  half  threat,  half  triumph,  he  put  his  arms 
around  her,  drew  her  away  from  the  windlass,  and  they 
wrestled  to  and  fro  for  a  moment.  Finally  she  ceased  to 
struggle,  and,  forcing  her  head  back  on  his  left  shoulder, 
he  kissed  her  half  a  dozen  times  on  the  mouth.  She  made 
no  protest  now.  In  fact,  she  almost  smiled  into  his  eyes 
as  she  closed  her  own.  Out  of  breath,  he  was  about  to 
release  her,  when  he  thought  of  something  else. 

"Put  your  arm  around  my  neck,  you  little  devil!  you 
angel!"  he  demanded.  She  hesitated,  and  then  slowly 
obeyed.  "  Now,  kiss  me  yourself!"  he  muttered,  his  voice 
far  down  in  his  throat.  "Again!  again!  again!  There." 

He  released  her.  "Now  I  guess  you'll  let  me  draw 
the  water." 

With  her  head  down,  her  fine  hair  tousled  and  veiling 
her  flushed,  contented  face,  she  stood  and  let  him  fill  the 
pot.  The  sun  was  almost  behind  the  hills.  The  shadows 
were  lengthening  eastward.  The  air  was  growing  cooler. 
Suddenly  she  started  into  the  cabin. 

"Where  are  you  going  now?"  he  questioned. 

"To  get  the  clothes  and  sheets  to  boil." 

"Oh,  I  see."  He  stood  quivering  all  over.  He  saw 
her  disappear  within.  He  heard  her  tread  on  the  creaking 
floor.  He  followed  to  the  door  and  looked  in.  She  was 
standing  near  the  great  snowy  bed,  and,  seeing  his  shadow 
on  the  floor,  she  faced  him.  They  looked  at  each  other 
mutely  and  steadily  for  a  moment.  He  was  advancing 
when  she  said,  sharply,  and  in  a  tone  of  alarm: 

"Don't  come  in  here." 

"Why?"  he  asked,  huskily.     "Why,  Lydia?" 

"Because  I  say  you  mustn't — that's  why." 

"But  you  know  you  can't  order  me  about,"  he  laughed, 
hoarsely.  "You've  tried  that  and  failed,  you  know. 
You've  got  to  kiss  me  again — just  once,  darling,  and  then 
I'll  go  home.  I  will — I  swear  I  will.' 

*' Don't  come  in  here — don't!"  she  repeated,  shrinking 

68 


THE   INNER   LAW 

back  against  the  wall.  "You  mustn't — Carter,  you 
mustn't!"  She  had  never  spoken  his  Christian  name 
before.  Its  startled  utterance  now  was  like  a  cry  for 
mercy. 

"Humph!  how  silly  you  are!"  He  strode  across  the 
threshold,  and  as  she  ran  into  a  corner  of  the  cabin  he 
followed  and  took  her  into  his  arms.  She  pushed  him 
from  her  desperately,  pleadingly,  several  times,  and  then, 
out  of  breath,  and  overpowered  by  his  strength,  she  let 
him  hold  her  close  to  him  and  kiss  her  on  the  mouth. 

An  hour  later  he  came  out  of  the  cabin  alone.  The  sun 
was  down.  The  soft  gray  fringe  of  night  lay  over  the 
hills  and  mountains.  The  sticks  had  burned  down  under 
the  pot.  Without  looking  behind  him,  he  strode  quickly 
toward  the  thicket  in  front  of  the  cabin.  Once  there,  he 
paused  and  glanced  back,  but  Lydia  was  not  in  sight. 
His  hair  was  tousled,  his  necktie  disarranged,  his  collar 
crumpled. 

"My  God!  what  have  I  done!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  my 
God!— my  God!— my  God!" 

He  sank  down  on  the  grass,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  uttered  a  low  groan.  "What  have  I  done?  Oh, 
what  have  I  done?  I'm  a  fiend,  a  devil — the  fire  of  hell 
was  in  me.  She  was  as  helpless  as  a  sparrow  in  the 
hand  of  a  giant.  My  God!  I'm  like  Henry  and  all  the 
rest." 

Presently  he  got  up  and  peered  through  the  bushes. 
He  saw  Lydia  emerge  from  the  cabin  and  walk  slowly  and 
disconsolately  to  the  well,  a  pail  in  her  hand.  She  averted 
her  face  and  wiped  her  eyes.  She  was  crying. 

"Oh,  I  love  her — I  love  her!"  he  cried,  "and  yet  I've 
wrecked  her  sweet  young  life.  Oh,  my  God!  something 
must  be  done!  I'll  not  forsake  her."  He  felt  actually 
weak;  his  knees  shook  as  he  made  his  way  over  the  fallen 
leaves  and  twigs  out  into  the  road.  Ahead  of  him  he  saw 

69 


THE   INNER   LAW 

a  man  with  bowed  head  walking  in  the  direction  he  was 
going.  He  checked  his  steps  that  the  man  might  go  on, 
but  the  man  kept  stopping  and  looking  back.  Then  he 
noticed  that  the  pedestrian  had  turned  and  was  coming 
toward  him.  It  was  Thomas  Crofton.  Carter  was 
tempted  to  step  into  the  wood  at  the  side  of  the  road,  that 
he  might  not  be  seen,  but  he  feared  that  he  had  already 
been  recognized.  In  a  moment  they  met. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,"  the  elder  said.  "You  are 
later  than  usual." 

Carter's  eyes  flickered.  He  glanced  toward  the  moun 
tain  road,  now  only  dimly  outlined  in  the  dusk.  "I 
walked  a  little  too  far  to-day,"  he  said,  evasively. 

'  'You  mean  that — that  you've — you've  just  come  down 
from  the  mountain?" 

"Yes;  I  go  there  nearly  every  day.  I  can't  always 
keep  track  of  the  time  when  I  am  preoccupied.  I — I  get 
to  thinking  over  my — work  and  almost  forget  that  I  own 
a  body  that  has  to  be  properly  fed." 

"I  see."  Thomas  was  looking  at  the  disordered  tie 
and  collar  and  the  crumpled  coat.  A  great  fear  seemed 
to  lie  in  his  grave  eyes  as  he  turned  homeward  and  trudged 
along  by  his  silent  nephew. 

They  were  at  the  gate  when  Carter  suddenly  remarked, 
"You  said,  I  think,  that  you  started  out  to  meet  me. 
Was  it  anything  of  importance?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot — I  entirely  forgot !"  the  old  man  answered, 
with  a  start.  "I  did  want  to  see  you  at  once.  About 
two  hours  ago  a  telegram  came  from  Milly.  She  says 
your  father  is  not  well.  Henry  is  away  and  she  is  all 
alone.  It  seems  that  your  father  has  had  a  sort  of  nervous 
breakdown.  He  keeps  asking  for  you,  and  your  sister 
thinks  you  ought  to  come  home,  for  a  few  days,  any 
way." 

Carter  stepped  forward  to  open  the  gate.  "What  do 
you  think?  Would  you  advise  my  going?" 

70 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Yes,  you'd  better  go.  You  have  plenty  of  time  to 
pack  your  things  and  catch  the  ten-o'clock  train  in  the 
morning.  Yes,  yes,  you'd  as  well  go." 

"Are  you  keeping  back  anything  from  me?"  the  young 
man  asked  as  they  went  up  the  steps  together.  "Is  my 
father  seriously  ill?" 

"  Not  as  yet,"  Thomas  returned;  "  but  your  sister  needs 
you.  I  have  no  right  to  detain  you  here  any  longer  just 
now." 

After  supper  was  over  the  old  man  went  out  on  the 
lawn  with  his  cigar.  His  nephew  had  always  joined  him 
before,  but  he  failed  to  do  so  to-night. 

"He  is  packing  his  things — that  must  be  it,"  Thomas 
mused.  He  walked  around  to  the  side  of  the  house  whence 
he  could  see  the  window  of  his  nephew's  chamber.  It 
was  lighted.  The  old  man  paced  restlessly  back  and 
forth  on  the  dewy  sward.  The  fire  of  his  cigar  went  out. 
He  locked  his  hands  behind  him. 

"He  was  there  alone  with  her!"  he  said,  with  a  groan. 
"There  is  no  doubt  of  that,  for  I  saw  him  leave,  but  I 
will  not  believe  the  worst — I  simply  won't;  I  can't!  It 
may  have  been  only  for  a  short  while.  I'll  swear  he  was 
pure  at  breakfast.  No  one  could  have  spoken  as  he  did 
about  his  plans  and  work  and  be  otherwise.  His  father's 
illness  may  be  providential.  God  has  sent  it  to  remove 
him  in  the  nick  of  time.  No,  I  won't  believe  it — I  won't, 
I  won't !  It  is  the  old  evil  in  me  that  makes  me  suspect 
him.  This  may  have  been  his  first  visit,  and  he  may 
have  had  a  good  reason  for  going.  But,  my  God!  the 
look  of  him !  And  he  lied — he  surely  lied  about  his  walk. 
Yes,  yes,  he  lied!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

MILICENT  met  her  brother  the  next  day  at  noon  at 
the  depot  in  the  city.  He  saw  her  in  the  throng  of 
persons  waiting  at  the  iron  gate  leading  to  the  street. 
Her  face  had  a  worn,  distraught  look  as  she  kissed  him  in 
her  usual  perfunctory  way  and  drew  him  toward  the  wait 
ing-room. 

"Larkin  drove  me  down;  the  carriage  is  outside.  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  privately,  and  couldn't  wait  for 
you  to  get  up  home.  Oh,  I  was  so  afraid  you'd  miss  this 
train!" 

"Then  father  is  critically  ill?"  he  said. 

"No,  it  isn't  that,"  she  answered.  "He  is  up  and 
about;  but—" 

"Ah,  then  it  is  Henry!"  he  cried,  impatiently  and  with 
a  touch  of  anger.  "The  rascal  must  be  in  fresh  trouble?" 

She  gave  a  little  negative  shake  to  her  head,  which  he 
failed  to  see,  and  remained  silent.  He  saw  Larkin,  whip 
in  hand,  outside,  and  he  led  Milicent  toward  him.  In  a 
moment  they  were  in  the  vehicle,  the  negro  had  closed  the 
door,  climbed  up  to  the  front  seat,  and  they  were  bowling 
swiftly  homeward  through  the  busy,  dusty  street.  He 
thought  he  understood  now.  Henry  had  at  last  got  into 
really  serious  trouble.  The  telegram  had  been  so  worded 
as  to  mislead  any  one  who  might  happen  to  read  it. 
Perhaps  he  was  under  arrest,  charged  with  some  grave 
offense.  But  he  couldn't  be  angry  at  his  brother  now,  for 
was  he  not  quite  as  bad?  After  all,  could  Henry  have 
ever  committed  a  more  despicable  act  than  the  one  with 

72 


THE   INNER   LAW 

which  his  whole  being  had  just  been  stained?  Poor,  igno 
rant  Lydia!  He  had  wrung  hope  and  purity  out  of  her 
fair  life  and  left  her  without  a  word  of  explanation.  Some 
thing  must  be  done,  but  what?  That  was  the  question 
which  had  robbed  him  of  tranquillity  and  caused  him  to 
toss  and  writhe  on  his  bed  in  sheer  agony  of  remorse 
through  the  entire  previous  night. 

"So  it  is  not  father,  after  all,"  he  said,  catching  his 
sister's  perturbed  upward  glance.  "Then  it  is  Henry. 
What  has  he  done  now?" 

" It  is  father,"  she  answered.  "  I  said  he  was  not  down 
in  bed;  but  it  is  even  worse  than  that;  he  has  lost  his 
mind." 

"Lost  his  mind?  Ridiculous!  Why — "  Carter  broke 
off,  checked  by  the  girl's  despondent  face  and  eyes. 

"Dr.  Lloyd  says  it  is  softening  of  the  brain,"  she  went 
on,  more  calmly.  "There  is  no  hope  of  ultimate  recov 
ery — absolutely  none.  This  is  the  first  attack.  Later, 
they  say  he  will  lose  vitality  and  be  easier  to  control. 
Now  he  wants  his  own  way,  and  it  is  awful — simply 
awful.  At  times  he  loses  the  use  of  his  tongue  and  doesn't 
know  he  is  speaking  indistinctly.  He  stammers  out 
questions  and  gives  fierce  orders,  and  when  we  don't 
understand  he  goes  into  a  frightful  rage.  The  doctor 
sent  a  strong  nurse — a  man  by  the  name  of  Perry — to 
stay  with  him ;  but  the  sight  of  the  fellow  infuriates  him. 
He  keeps  asking  for  you,  and  cries  like  a  baby  over  not 
seeing  you.  He  says  you  are  the  only  one  who  is  not 
against  him." 

"But  how  did  it  first  come  on?"  Carter  was  trying  to 
drive  Lydia  from  his  mind,  but  the  memory  of  her  and 
her  sad  plight  thrust  itself  on  him  in  spite  of  the  grave 
information  he  was  receiving. 

"  I  began  to  notice  that  something  was  wrong  immedi 
ately  after  you  left,"  Milicent  went  on;  "but  I  thought 
it  would  pass  away,  and  so  I  did  not  write  to  you.  Father 

73 


THE    INNER   LAW 

came  into  my  room  one  night  and  began  to  contend  that 
Henry  was  plotting  to  rob  him.  He  sat  up  half  the  night 
trying  to  convince  me  of  it,  and  made  several  insane 
statements  to  prove  his  point.  He  said  he  saw  Henry  in 
front  of  a  barroom  with  some  notoriously  bad  men  one 
day,  and  when  he  passed  them  they  all  stopped  talking 
and  looked  down  suspiciously.  Then  he  said  one  of  the 
men  dogged  his  steps  to  his  office  and  peered  at  him 
through  the  window. 

"The  next  day  Henry  came  home  from  Rome,  and 
father  acted  in  the  most  cowed  and  servile  manner  before 
him.  He  voluntarily  gave  Henry  a  considerable  sum  of 
money,  much  to  Henry's  surprise.  I  did  not  want  to  hurt 
Henry's  feelings,  and  so  I  did  not  explain.  After  Henry 
had  gone  down-town,  father  laughed  heartily,  and  said 
that  he  did  it  to  keep  Henry  from  poisoning  him.  He 
warned  the  cook  not  to  allow  him  in  the  kitchen.  He 
stopped  drinking  coffee,  and  smelled  his  food  before  eating 
it.  After  that  he  got  worse  and  worse.  He  was  up  prowl 
ing  about  the  house  all  night,  constantly  on  the  lookout 
for  the  men  he  said  Henry  had  employed  to  rob  him.  I 
am  sorry  for  Henry.  He  doesn't  deserve  this,  at  least." 

"But  when  was  father  taken  as  he  is  now?"  Carter 
asked. 

"Only  the  day  before  yesterday.  They  telephoned  me 
from  the  bank  that  he  was  there  angrily  making  some 
sort  of  demands  that  they  could  not  understand.  He  had 
lost  the  use  of  his  tongue  and  could  not  write.  I  hurried 
down  to  the  bank,  and  found  him  almost  in  a  comatose 
condition  in  the  president's  office.  Later  he  revived  some 
what  and  readily  came  home  with  me.  It  was  after  that 
that  he  became  so  hard  to  control.  So,  you  see,  I  had  to 
send  for  you.  The  mere  sight  of  Henry  infuriates  him, 
and  at  times  he  even  raves  out  against  me.  His  latest 
idea  is  that  Henry  has  killed  you  to  get  your  part  of  the 
estate,  and  that  I  am  hiding  the  truth  from  him,  I  saw 

74 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Charley  Farnham  that  morning  at  the  bank.  He  advised 
me  to  telegraph  for  you.  He  said  you  could  do  more  with 
father  than  all  the  rest  of  us  put  together.  I  told  father 
that  I  was  going  to  meet  you,  and  he  laughed  and  cried 
like  a  child." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  Carter  asked. 

"He  is  at  home — at  least  he  was  when  I  left  half  an 
hour  ago.  Mr.  Perry  was  watching  him.  Father  often 
tries  to  go  down-town,  but  he  keeps  him  back." 

"And  Henry,  where  is  he  now?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  has  kept  away  from  the  house 
since  father's  breakdown.  Larkin  saw  him  on  the  street 
yesterday,  and  thinks  he  is  drinking  again." 

They  were  entering  the  drive  at  the  house  now.  No 
one  was  in  sight  except  Perry,  the  nurse,  who  stood  in 
the  front  door,  carelessly  eying  them.  He  approached 
them  as  the  carriage  drew  up  in  the  porte-cochere,  tossing 
aside  the  cigarette  he  was  smoking.  He  jerked  his  thumb 
toward  Gilbert's  room  up-stairs. 

"He's  lying  down."  A  satisfied  smile  lay  on  his  fat, 
smooth  face,  and  he  shrugged  his  massive  shoulders.  He 
wore  no  coat,  and  his  shirt-sleeves  were  supported  by 
tight  elastic  bands  above  his  elbows.  His  strong  wrists 
were  covered  with  hair.  He  had  once  been  a  butcher. 
He  had  a  low  brow  and  a  ponderous  jaw. 

"Is  he  asleep?"  Milicent  asked.  "Mr.  Perry,  this  is 
my  brother  Carter." 

"Pleased  to  make  yore  acquaintance,  I'm  sure,"  said 
the  big  man.  "Yes,  I  think  the  old  gent  is  dozing  a 
little.  Maybe  I  didn't  have  a  time  with  'im,  miss,  after 
you  drove  off.  He  got  all  sorts  o'  notions  in  his  head,  an' 
I  couldn't  get  'em  out.  Yore  other  brother  drove  by 
with  some  more  sports  just  now,  and  stopped  to  get  some 
thing  of  his  out  of  his  room,  and  the  old  gent  saw  him. 
Why,  he's  a  funny  old  duck!  Do  you  know  he  begun  to 
whimper,  he  did,  and  plead  with  yore  brother  about  some- 

75 


THE    INNER   LAW 

thing  or  other,  an'  when  yore  brother  was  up-stairs  in  his 
room  yore  pa  got  scared  an'  broke  an'  run  behind  the 
house  an'  hid  in  the  stable.  He  closed  the  door  an*  bolted 
it  on  the  inside.  I  tried  for  a  half -hour  or  so  to  get  'im 
to  open  it,  an'  then  had  to  climb  in  through  the  loft.  If  I 
hadn't  'a'  been  strong  as  three  of  'im  I'd  'a*  been  in  a 
tight  hole,  for  he  had  a  piece  o'  plank  in  his  hand,  an' 
stood  ready  for  me.  I  forced  it  from  'im,  and  finally  got 
'im  quiet.  But  I'm  no  good  at  this  job.  He's  agin  me, 
an'  I  never  have  any  luck  with  patients  who  get  that  way. 
I  was  telling  Dr.  Lloyd  this  morning  that  the  case  was 
more'n  I  can  handle.  I  don't  sleep,  you  see,  an'  I'm 
gettin'  shaky.  The  old  gent  wakes  every  ten  minutes 
through  the  night,  an'  is  always  cocked  an'  primed  for  a 
row.  Listen!  I  hear  'im  now.  Say,  Mr.  Carter,  I'd  advise 
you  to  go  up  to  'im.  He  dotes  on  you,  an'  has  been  wor 
ried  about  you.  You  may  not  like  his  looks;  he  can't 
shave  hisself,  and  won't  let  a  barber  touch  'im.  I'd  go 
up  now,  if  I  was  you." 

"  Yes,  go  up  at  once,"  Milicent  urged. 

Carter  complied,  and  as  he  ascended  the  stairs  which 
he  had  known  from  infancy  every  bright  dream  of  his 
life  seemed  to  have  vanished.  Young  as  he  was,  he  was 
now  practically  at  the  head  of  the  family.  The  strong 
mind  upon  which  he  had  always  relied  now  lay  in  ruins, 
as  the  consequence  of  a  life  ill-begun  and  ill-spent.  And 
what  was  his  own  beginning?  Had  not  that  already  hap 
pened  which  could  never  be  forgiven?  He  suppressed  a 
groan.  His  feet  seemed  to  have  weights  attached  to 
them.  It  was,  to  his  sensitive  fancy,  almost  as  if  the 
calamity  which  had  befallen  his  family  was  a  visitation 
of  Providence  on  himself. 

Entering  his  father's  chamber,  he  saw  the  old  man 
seated  on  the  edge  of  his  bed.  He  had  thrown  the  pillows, 
sheets,  and  coverings  on  the  floor.  One  of  his  shoes  was 
in  the  bed,  the  other  he  held  in  his  quivering  hands,  and 


THE    INNER    LAW 

was  trying  to  draw  it  on  a  foot  without  a  stocking.  His 
face  was  averted.  His  son  saw  only  his  profile.  A  four 
days'  growth  of  gray  beard  bristled  on  his  cheeks  and 
chin.  He  was  ghastly  pale;  his  cheeks  were  sunken; 
dark  splotches  were  beneath  his  glaring  eyes;  and  saliva 
trickled  from  the  twitching  corners  of  his  mouth  down  on 
his  crumpled  and  soiled  shirt-front.  He  did  not  note 
Carter's  presence  till  he  stood  in  front  of  him.  Then, 
with  a  glad  cry,  he  sprang  up  and  caught  his  son  in  his 
arms.  He  stammered  unintelligibly,  burst  into  tears, 
and  began  to  whimper.  Then,  somewhat  calmer,  his 
speech  became  more  distinct. 

"W-w-where  you  been?  W-where'd  he  put  you?  I 
knew  it  was  his  plot.  He  heard  about  your  railroad  in 
terest.  That  was  t-t-too  much  for  the  scamp.  He  and 
his  gang  of  bloodthirsty  thugs  wanted  to  put  you  out  of 
the  way  so  he  could  nab  it  up  himself.  I  fixed  the  will  on 
purpose.  I  didn't  want  to  leave  him  so  much  to  squander 
on  sots  and  dirty  hussies.  H-he'll  have  more  than  he  de 
serves,  sharing  equally  with  Milly;  but  you'll  get  the 
plum.  Huh!  Ask  Farnham.  That  railroad  stock  is 
c-c-climbing  by  leaps  and  bounds.  Y-you've  got  the 
brains  of  'em  all.  Y-y-you  are  clean  and  decent,  too. 
You  are  all  I've  got.  Mil-Mil-Milly's  in  cahoot  with 
Henry.  Oh,  they  can't  fool  me!  I — I  don't  let  on  to 
them  that  I  am  on  to  their  game,  but  I  am — I  am.  She 
put  this  big  thug  here.  He  throws  me  down,  beats  me 
in  the  face,  and  spies  on  me,  the  sneaking  dog!  They 
are  all  against  me.  They  won't  pay  me  my  own  money 
at  the  bank.  Henry  has  been  there  and  bribed  them, 
and  Milly— " 

" Father,  listen,"  Carter  said,  huskily.  "You  are  mis 
taken.  You  only  fancy  that  they — " 

"Hush!"  Gilbert  sniffed,  and  then  laughed  out  de 
risively.  "I  see — they  are  trying  to  hoodwink  you,  too. 
But  you  pay  attention  to  me.  I  know  a  thing  or 

77 


THE    INNER    LAW 

two.     Say,  we  must  get  away  from  them.     We  can't 
stay  here." 

"Never  mind,  never  mind,"  Carter  said,  soothingly. 
"I'll  take  care  of  you."  He  was  experiencing  something 
new  and  vastly  tender.  A  strong  yearning  possessed  him 
to  caress  the  bowed  and  broken  man.  They  seemed  to 
have  changed  positions  in  regard  to  each  other.  Young 
as  he  was,  he  felt  toward  the  old  man  as  a  father  to  a 
helpless  child.  His  breast  ached  with  a  pitying  tender 
ness.  Sobs  hung  in  his  throat,  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 
He  sat  down  by  his  father  and  helped  him  put  on  his 
stockings  and  shoes.  Gilbert  was  calmer  now  and 
shrewder.  He  fell  to  laughing  softly  and  triumphantly. 

"Oh,  well  fix  them!"  he  kept  chuckling.  "Between 
us  we'll  settle  their  hash.  Huh!  If  they  don't  look  out 
I'll  cut  them  out  altogether  and  send  them  adrift  to  beg 
their  bread,  so  I  will.  They  are  entirely  too  meddlesome 
and  anxious  to  handle  my  funds  before  I'm  underground." 

Carter  remained  in  the  room  for  an  hour.  He  noticed 
a  vacant  stare  in  the  old  face,  and  then,  grown  drowsy, 
Gilbert  allowed  him  to  take  off  his  shoes  and  put  him  to 
bed.  Soon  the  old  man  was  asleep.  Carter  stood  at  a 
window,  looking  down  on  the  lawn.  He  saw  Dr.  Lloyd, 
a  middle-aged  man  of  portly  frame,  drive  in  at  the  gate. 
A  few  minutes  later  he  heard  the  low  sound  of  the  muffled 
door-bell,  and  Milly's  subdued  voice  at  the  door.  Carter 
decided  that  he  would  go  down,  but  he  dreaded  the  en 
counter.  He  did  not  want  to  meet  any  one,  for  any  rea 
son  at  all.  Insanity  had'been  a  thing  which  had  always 
horrified  him,  and  now  it  had  come  to  his  own  father. 
But  the  doctor  would  expect  him,  and  he  must  go  down. 
He  was  now  the  only  man  in  the  family  who  could  be 
depended  on,  and  he  must  do  his  duty. 

He  found  the  doctor  and  Milicent  in  the  library,  convers 
ing  in  low  tones,  and  when  Carter  entered  the  room  she 
rose  and  went  out. 

78 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"You  are  the  best  medicine  he  could  have,"  Dr.  Lloyd 
smiled,  as  he  got  up  and  shook  Carter's  hand.  "Nobody 
else  can  do  so  much  with  him  as  you.  You  see,  he  has 
sufficient  mind  left  to  reason  a  little,  and  he  knows  some 
thing  is  wrong,  having  Perry  here,  you  know,  who  has 
to  restrain  him  by  force  once  in  a  while." 

Carter  nodded.  He  was  trying  to  appear  calm.  "What 
do  you  advise?"  he  asked,  his  voice  sounding  harsh  and 
guttural  to  himself. 

"I  was  just  consulting  with  your  sister  in  regard  to 
.the  only  course  open  to  us,"  Lloyd  said.  "The  truth  is 
we  can't  keep  him  here  at  home.  It  is  wholly  impossible. 
We  haven't  the  facilities,  and  a  disease  such  as  he  has 
often  progresses  rapidly.  He  might  become  actually 
dangerous,  you  see.  We  must  put  him  in  a  sanitarium 
where  he  can  have  constant  medical  attention  and  neces 
sary  restraint." 

"So,"  Carter  sighed,  "you  don't  think  this  attack  is, 
in  any  sense,  merely  temporary?" 

' '  Oh  no.  We'd  as  well  face  the  truth,  unpleasant  as  it  is, 
my  dear  boy.  There  is  no  known  cure  for  paresis,  and 
I'm  afraid,  from  the  symptoms,  that  your  father  cannot 
live  very  long.  He  is  losing  vitality  rapidly,  but  the 
routine  of  a  good  sanitarium  will  prolong  his  life,  if  any 
thing  will." 

"  What  is  the  primal  cause  of  the  disease?"  Carter  asked, 
simply. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment.  It 
was  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak  quite  frankly,  but  on 
second  thought  he  seemed  to  change  his  mind.  "The 
disease  is — well,  rather  hard  to  account  for,  but  since 
you  are  young  and  of  a  sensitive,  imaginative  type,  I  feel 
that  it  is  my  duty  to  assure  you  of  one  thing  positively, 
and  that  is,  it  is  not  in  any  sense  hereditary." 

"I've  heard  that  it  was  not,"  Carter  answered,  rather 
bluntly,  in  his  despair;  "but  it  seems  tome  that  I  have 

79 


THE    INNER    LAW 

read  that  it  is  the  final  result  of  a  certain  blood  disease 
which  young  men  contract  early  in  life,  and  which  seems 
for  a  time  to  be  cured,  but  which  lies  dormant  and — " 

"I  see  you  understand,"  Dr.  Lloyd  interrupted.  " It  is 
wonderful  how  much  you  poets  read.  I  suppose  it  can 
do  you  no  harm  to  comprehend  the  situation  thoroughly. 
We  needn't  discuss  that  particular  feature  further,  but  it 
is  quite  likely  that  your  father  would  have  thrown  it  off 
much  longer  if  he  had  not  had  such  a  strenuous  business 
career.  He  has  had  enough  on  his  mind  to  have  killed 
a  dozen  ordinary  men." 

There  was  a  rather  awkward  silence.  Presently  Car 
ter  said,  "Then  you  think  he  ought  to  be  taken  away?" 

"Yes,  and  at  once.  I  happen  to  know  personally  Dr. 
Hamilton  of  the  Sunnyside  Sanitarium,  near  Cincinnati — 
only  a  few  miles  out.  The  fact  is,  I  telegraphed  him  yes 
terday,  and  find  that  he  has  an  opening  and  will  do  all 
he  can  for  us.  The  only  thing  that  was  worrying  me  was 
that  we  might  have  trouble  in  getting  your  father  to  go 
quietly.  But  if  you  will  allow  me  to  suggest  it,  I  think  it 
would  be  best  for  you  to  take  him." 

"Do  you  think  I  could  do  it?"  Carter  asked. 

"Yes,  for  this  reason:  your  father  fancies  that  your 
brother  and  sister  are  against  both  you  and  him,  and  he 
says  that  he  and  you  are  going  to  leave  Atlanta.  Now 
if  you  will  only  humor  him  in  this  whim  of  his  I  am  sure 
he  will  go  with  you  without  any  trouble  at  all.  Of  course, 
once  you  have  him  within  the  grounds  of  Dr.  Hamilton's 
establishment  all  your  responsibility  will  be  over." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  had  better  undertake  it,"  Carter  con 
sented. 

At  this  moment  Milicent  returned.  "  I '  ve  been  worrying 
about  f ather's  business, ' '  she  said  to  her  brother.  ' '  Do  you 
suppose  he  has  paid  the  premiums  on  his  life-insurance?" 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  he  has,"  Carter  replied.  "I  heard 
him  speak  of  it  at  the  office  one  day." 

80 


THE   INNER   LAW 

" There  is  another  thing,"  Dr.  Lloyd  said.  "I  am  con 
vinced  that  my  man  Perry  is  doing  more  harm  than  good 
just  now.  He  seems  to  infuriate  your  father,  and  I 
think  I'll  take  him  away  at  once.  Now  that  you  are  here, 
Carter,  I  think  you  won't  need  him.  The  train  leaves  at 
ten  o'clock  to-morrow  night.  We  can  reserve  the  draw 
ing-room  in  the  sleeper.  If  you  say  so  I'll  attend  to  all 
the  details.  I'd  go  along  myself,  but  he  won't  need 
medical  attention,  and  my  presence  would  rouse  his  sus 
picion." 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  Carter  answered.  "I'm  sure 
you  know  best,  and  I'll  follow  your  instructions." 

"Then  I'll  take  Perry  back  with  me,"  Lloyd  said. 
"He  has  very  little  tact,  and  believes  too  much  in  brute 
force  for  a  case  like  this.  Your  method  is  best,  Carter. 
I  see  that  by  the  way  you  are  already  handling  your 
father." 

6 


CHAPTER  XII 

THAT  evening,  just  after  nightfall,  Carter  sat  alone 
in  the  big  parlor.  Never  before  had  he  believed  that 
such  terrible  depression  of  spirits  could  come  to  any  one 
as  now  lay  upon  him.  Presently  he  heard  a  cautious  step 
on  the  walk  in  front  of  the  house,  and  a  moment  later 
Henry  tiptoed  across  the  veranda  and  entered  the  hall. 
Carter  rose  and  went  to  the  door  just  as  his  brother  was 
putting  his  hat  and  cane  on  the  rack. 

"Hello!"  Henry  said  in  an  undertone.  "So  they  made 
you  hustle  home,  eh?" 

Carter  drew  him  into  the  dimly  lighted  parlor.  "  Don't 
wake  him,"  he  said,  with  a  warning  gesture  toward  his 
father's  room.  "He  is  resting  quietly." 

"By  God!  it's  time!"  Henry  answered,  with  a  surly 
grunt.  "I  know  I'm  tired  of  the  whole  damned  thing. 
I  met  Perry  down-town.  He  told  me  about  the  old  man's 
fool  notion  in  regard  to  me." 

"You  mustn't  notice  it,"  Carter  said,  gently.  "He 
doesn't  know  what  he  is  doing  or  saying." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  are  going  to  take  him  off,"  Henry 
said,  indifferently.  "The  whole  town  is  gabbing  about 
it.  I'm  going  to  get  something  to  eat,  and  make  myself 
scarce  afterward.  I'm  sleeping  at  the  club.  I  have  a 
guest  from  out  of  town.  If  you  need  help  let  me  know. 
Say,  how  do  I  look?  Bum,  eh?  I've  been  soaked  for 
a  week.  I  came  within  an  inch  of  the  jimmies  yesterday. 
I'm  going  to  let  up.  I'm  no  fool.  I'm  going  to  cut  the 
rum  route  off  my  map.  I  don't  wish  the  old  man  any  ill 

82 


THE    INNER    LAW 

luck,  but  I  understand  he'll  never  get  well,  and  a  slow, 
lingering  death  is  unpleasant  all  round.  They  say  he 
made  his  will  before  he  lost  his  mind  and  all  three  of  us 
children  share  equally.  I  was  afraid  he  was  going  to 
act  nasty  with  me,  and  I'm  glad  he  did  the  fair  thing.  It 
will  be  different  with  me  when  I  have  capital  of  my  own. 
This  way  of  going  to  him  for  every  penny  I  need  is  a  pretty 
tough  proposition.  It  kills  self-respect  and  ambition." 

Half  an  hour  later  Carter  saw  his  brother  pass  out  at 
the  door  and  go  blithely  down  the  walk,  lightly  swinging 
his  cane  in  his  hand.  How  was  it,  he  asked  himself,  that 
the  family  calamity  could  rest  so  lightly  on  Henry  while 
it  had  become  such  a  weighty,  far-reaching  horror  to 
him?  Why  was  it,  too,  'that  that  one  indiscretion  with 
Lydia  seemed  so  unpardonable,  when  Henry  had  for 
gotten  many  such  experiences?  Was  it  due  to  an  ex 
ceptional  disposition?  Yes,  that  must  be  it.  He  was 
imaginative,  full  of  ideals  and  the  teachings  of  great  minds, 
while  Henry  was  sordidly  practical,  materialistic,  and  un 
read.  Did  he  and  his  brother  have  separate  laws  accord 
ing  to  which  each  was  to  live?  And  was  the  one  who  had 
the  higher  light  expected  to  live  a  better  life  than  the 
one  who  had  scarcely  any  light  save  that  which,  phos 
phorus-like,  comes  from  dead  matter?  It  seemed  so,  and 
yet  why  should  it  be? 

At  this  juncture  he  heard  his  father  walking  on  the 
floor  above.  And  then  he  heard  him  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs.  He  was  coming  down,  dragging  his  feet  from  step 
to  step,  and  sliding  his  hand  on  the  walnut  railing.  Mili- 
cent  heard  him  and  ran  out  into  the  hall,  followed  by 
Larkin.  Seeing  her  brother  in  the  dim  light  of  the  hall 
lamp,  she  cried: 

"Oh,  catch  him!    He'll  fall  and  hurt  himself." 

Therewith  Larkin  sprang  up  the  steps  and  caught  his 
master's  arm.  " Steady,  marster,"  he  said,  gently.  "Be 
careful!  Don't  hurry!" 

83 


THE    INNER   LAW 

But  impatiently  jerking  from  the  negro's  clutch,  Gil 
bert  half  slid,  half  tumbled  down  the  remainder  of  the 
steps  and  lunged  out  on  the  veranda.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  glaring  about  him,  then  he  stumbled  down  to  the 
walk,  where,  snorting  like  a  beast  at  bay,  he  turned  and 
faced  them. 

" D-d-don' t  you  dare  touch  me!"  he  cried,  shaking  his 
fist  at  Larkin.  "I-I-I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  black 
hide,  you  stinking  scamp!" 

"Oh,  go  to  him,  brother!"  Milicent  pleaded.  " Pacify 
him,  humor  him!  He  will  do  anything  for  you." 

"You  dry  up,  you  meddlesome,  scheming  hussy!"  Gil 
bert  thundered.  "  I'm  on  to  your  tricks.  You  f-f -follow 
me  and  I'll  have  the  law  on  you.  I'll  call  the  police  and 
tell  them  w-what  you're  up  to!" 

He  was  turning  toward  the  gate  when  Carter  reached 
his  side.  "Where  are  you  going,  father?"  he  asked, 
greatly  perturbed. 

"To  the  b-b-bank,"  was  the  answer.  "I  want  my 
m-money.  We've  got  to  have  some  to — to  leave  here  on." 

"But  it  is  night;  the  bank  is  closed,"  Carter  said,  per 
suasively. 

"I  can  get  in.  They  got  to  let  me  have  my  money," 
Gilbert  persisted,  and  he  turned  toward  the  gate. 

"Leave  him  to  me.  I'll  bring  him  home,"  Carter  called 
back  to  Milicent,  who  was  following  close  behind.  "Stay 
here;  he  will  be  all  right.  I'll  go  with  him." 

"Yes,  you  come  on,"  Gilbert  said.  "You  can  make 
them  do  the  right  thing." 

They  passed  out  at  the  gate,  Carter  holding  his  father's 
limp  arm.  The  old  man  wore  no  hat,  and  his  shaggy  head 
was  down  so  low  that  his  chin  rested  on  his  breast.  He 
was  panting  through  his  big  nostrils  like  a  tired  beast  of 
burden.  His  son  noticed  that  the  strings  of  his  shoes 
were  loose,  and  he  tried  to  get  Gilbert  to  let  him  tie  them ; 
but  with  an  impatient  snort  the  old  man  strode  onward, 

84 


THE    INNER    LAW 

sliding  his  feet  over  the  pavement  and  stumbling  where 
the  stones  were  uneven.  The  people  they  met,  mostly 
laborers  going  home  from  work,  turned  and  stared  won- 
deringly  after  them.  At  the  end  of  the  street  they  met 
several  young  ladies  of  Carter's  acquaintance.  They 
glanced  at  him  and  his  charge  sympathetically,  bowed 
silently,  dropped  their  eyes,  and  went  on  without  looking 
back.  He  knew  that  they  had  heard  the  gossip  and  under 
stood  the  situation.  He  felt  sure  that  they  were  sorry  for 
him,  and  a  lump  of  appreciation  rose  in  his  throat.  In 
all  his  life  he  had  not  dreamt  that  such  humiliation  as 
this  could  fall  upon  him.  But  his  post  was  there.  The 
bedraggled  human  wreck  he  was  leading  along  was  his 
father.  If  the  whole  world  were  looking  on,  he  would  not 
falter.  He  would  bear  his  burden  as  a  man  should. 

Finally  they  reached  the  business  portion  of  the  city, 
and  in  passing  the  door  of  a  hotel  Carter  saw  Charles 
Farnham  about  to  get  into  a  cab.  He  caught  Carter's 
bewildered  glance  and  stepped  toward  him,  an  expression 
of  grave  concern  on  his  face. 

"Can  I  help  you?"  he  inquired.  "Don't  you  want  to 
use  my  cab?" 

"Yes,  if  he  will  take  it,"  Carter  answered,  desperately. 
"  Father  " — he  shook  the  drooping  old  man's  arm — "  here's 
Charley;  he  wants  us  to  ride  home  with  him." 

' '  Yes ;  come,  get  in, ' '  Farnham  urged,  tactf ully .  ' '  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  our  railroad." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know — the  railroad!"  Gilbert  grinned  up 
at  him.  "It's  all  right,  eh?  It's  a  whopping  big  deal, 
eh,  Charley?" 

"Yes,  it  is  doing  finely."  Farnham  caught  his  disen 
gaged  arm  and  drew  him  toward  the  cab.  "Come,  let's 
ride  home  and  talk  it  over  there.  We  are  going  to  have 
that  big  meeting  of  capitalists  next  month,  and  Carter 
has  to  make  a  speech.  Come  on,  now.  We  can't  talk 
here." 

85 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Why  not?  I'm  not  afraid."  Gilbert  threw  his  full 
weight  backward,  and,  grown  suddenly  suspicious,  twisted 
his  arm  from  Farnham's  hold.  "I'm  going  to  get  a  gun, 
I  am,  and  blow  their  dirty  heads  off.  And  you,  too. 
What  do  you  mean  by  holding  me  up  like  this?"  He  was 
now  addressing  the  cabman.  "I  know  you,  you  dirty 
whelp!  You  are  in  Henry's  employ.  You  are  trying  to 
abduct  me.  You  want  to  kill  me." 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  Carter  begged  of  his  friend.  "It 
is  the  only  way." 

"All  right,  but  I  wish  I  could  help,"  Parnham  said, 
regretfully,  as  he  stepped  back  toward  the  hotel  entrance. 

Then,  chuckling  softly,  and  bursting  into  little  fits  of 
spasmodic  laughter,  Gilbert  staggered  onward,  his  son 
by  his  side.  Soon  they  were  at  the  bank.  It  was  closed. 
Through  the  big  plate-glass  window  a  dim  light  could  be 
seen  burning  in  front  of  the  steel-doored  vaults.  The  old 
man  caught  the  massive  door-knob  and  shook  it  vigor 
ously. 

" Father,  it  is  too  late— it  is  night !"  Carter  said.  "You 
know  they  don't  keep  open  after  dark.  Come  home  with 
me.  We  will  sleep  together.  I'm  tired,  and  I  know  you 
are." 

"Will  you  sleep  with  me?  Will  you?"  Gilbert  asked, 
as  anxiously  as  a  worried  child,  a  thwarted  flare  in  his 
eyes. 

"Yes,  yes.  Come  on!"  A  group  was  gathering.  A  man 
in  the  clothing  of  a  laborer  hurried  forward  excitedly. 

' '  Anything  wrong  with  the  bank  ?"  he  panted.  ' '  They've 
got  all  my  savings." 

"No;  my  father  is  ill,  that's  all,"  Carter  explained. 
"He  doesn't  know  what  he  is  doing.  He  has  had  a  ner 
vous  attack." 

"Oh,  then  the  bank  is  all  right!"  the  man  said,  in  relief, 
and  he  went  on  his  way,  followed  by  some  of  the  more 
considerate  of  the  bystanders. 

86 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Gilbert  now  was  more  tractable.  He  allowed  his  son 
to  lead  him  across  the  street  and  thence  slowly  homeward. 
A  few  curious  stragglers,  mostly  young  boys,  followed  some 
distance  behind,  but  they  soon  dropped  back.  The  re 
turn  was  slow  and  filled  with  meaningless  pauses.  It  was 
about  ten  o'clock  when  they  finally  entered  the  gate, 
made  their  way  along  the  walk  and  up  the  veranda  steps. 
Milicent  stood  in  the  darkened  hallway,  evidently  un 
decided  as  to  whether  she  should  be  seen  or  not.  Larkin, 
who  was  on  the  lawn,  crept  forward,  but  Carter  motioned 
him  back. 

"We  are  going  up  to  bed,"  he  said.     "Leave  us  alone." 

"Yes,  and  you  stay  out  of  my  room,"  Gilbert  threw 
back,  angrily.  "Carter  and  I  know  what  we  are  doing." 

Hearing  this,  Milicent  slipped  into  the  dark  drawing- 
room  and  remained  out  of  sight. 

As  father  and  son  ascended  the  stairs  the  son  heard  the 
other  chuckling,  softly.  " Huh !"  he  said.  "That  negro's 
been  hired  to  spy  on  me,  and  to  slug  me  in  the  dark;  but 
you  and  I'll  show  them  we  are  no  fools." 

Reaching  his  father's  room,  Carter  turned  up  the  light 
and  persuaded  his  now  blandly  staring  charge  to  let  him 
undress  him.  Seated  on  the  edge  of  the  big,  wide  bed, 
Gilbert  allowed  him  to  take  off  his  shoes  and  stockings. 
Then  his  trousers  and  other  clothing  were  removed,  and 
a  clean,  cool  nightshirt  was  put  on.  It  was  a  strange, 
weird  experience  to  the  sensitive,  imaginative  young  man. 
He  could  not  remember  ever  having  seen  his  father's 
nude  body,  and  the  thin,  wasted  limbs,  the  hairy,  yellow 
ish  skin  filled  him  with  combined  dismay  and  pitying 
tenderness.  He  felt  that  he  was  performing  the  last  duty 
of  a  son  to  a  slowly  dying  parent.  As  he  put  the  shirt 
over  the  tousled  head  his  hands  touched  the  old  man's 
wrinkled  neck,  and  an  irresistible  impulse  came  to  him 
to  caress  the  emaciated  frame.  As  he  buttoned  the  shirt 
at  the  neck,  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  old  man.  They 


THE    INNER    LAW 

were  filling  with  tears.  Suddenly  Gilbert  put  his  arms 
about  him  and  drew  him  tightly  against  his  breast,  which 
was  shaking  with  sobs. 

"  My  darling  boy !"  he  said,  huskily.  "You  love  me — I 
know  you  do." 

"Yes,  father.'1  And  Carter  stroked  back  the  stiff, 
coarse  hair  from  the  dusty,  perspiring  brow.  Then  he  got 
Gilbert  to  lie  back  on  a  pillow  and,  dampening  a  towel, 
he  wiped  the  face,  neck,  and  chest.  "Now  you  will  sleep 
soundly,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "I'll  stay  here  with  you, 
but  I'll  lower  the  light." 

"Don't  leave  me!"  Gilbert  pleaded,  half  sitting  up  in 
sudden  anxiety. 

"No,  I'll  be  right  here  in  the  room,"  Carter  assured 
him.  "Now  lie  down." 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock.  Gilbert  lay  with  his  eyes 
open,  placidly  staring  through  the  dim  light  at  his  son. 
There  was  a  soft  step  in  the  hall,  a  most  cautious  rap  on 
the  door.  Carter  went  to  it.  Milicent  was  there,  holding 
a  glass  with  medicine  in  it. 

"The  doctor  is  down-stairs,"  she  whispered.  "He 
says  he  will  not  come  up,  since  you  are  doing  so  well.  He 
says  if  father  is  restless  in  the  night  to  give  him  this. 
Are  you  going  to  sit  up?" 

"No.  I'll  lie  down  by  him;  he  wishes  it,"  Carter  said. 
"He  is  getting  quiet;  we  both  may  sleep  a  little." 

"  Oh,  brother,  isn't  it  terrible  ?  Have  you  seen  the  after 
noon  paper?" 

"No.    What  is  in  it?" 

"Oh,  it  is  a  long  article  written  very  discreetly  as  to 
father's  condition.  It  is  spoken  of  as  a  nervous  collapse, 
the  serious  illness  of  Atlanta's  leading  capitalist.  There 
is  a  lot  about  you,  too." 

"About  me?" 

"Yes — your  talent  and  promising  future,  and  your  being 
galled  home  suddenly.  You  know  the  reporters  exert 

38 


THE,  INNER   LAW 

themselves  to  make  their  articles  readable,  and  you  have 
admirers  on  all  the  papers.  I'll  show  it  to  you  in  the 
morning." 

He  extended  his  hand  and  detained  her  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs.  "Could  you  bring  it  to  me  here?  I  may  get 
a  chance  to  look  at  it  through  the  night.  The  article 
did  not  say  that  I  had  accomplished  any  jresh  work  in 
the  country,  did  it?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  but  I  looked  it  over  hurriedly;  I  can't 
say  positively.  I  think  they  said  you  were  at  work  at  a 
long  poem  on  some  ambitious  subject.  But  I  can't  be 
sure.  I  was  so  worried  that  I  did  not  read  it  thoroughly." 

"Well,  bring  it  up.     I'll  wait  for  you  here." 

She  tiptoed  down  the  stairs,  and  he  stood  waiting  in 
the  dark.  She  was  gone  longer  than  seemed  necessary. 
Going  to  the  door  of  his  father's  room,  he  peered  in,  find 
ing  Gilbert  lying  just  as  he  had  left  him,  his  eyes  open 
and  staring  blankly.  Carter  decided  then  that  some 
thing  was  detaining  Milicent,  and,  rather  displeased  over 
the  delay,  he  started  down  to  get  the  paper,  when  he  saw 
her  coming  with  it  in  her  hand.  She  gave  it  to  him,  and 
he  returned  to  the  patient's  room.  The  gas  was  too  low 
for  him  to  read,  and,  seated  by  the  bed,  he  wondered  if 
turning  the  light  up  would  disturb  his  father.  He  was 
afraid  it  might  do  so,  and  yet  he  was  curious  and  even 
impatient  to  read  what  had  been  written  about  his  work 
and  himself.  Presently  he  surmounted  the  difficulty  by 
slipping  from  the  room,  without  attracting  his  father's 
notice,  and  going  into  his  own  room  across  the  hall.  He 
turned  up  the  low-burning  gas  and,  standing  by  his  bureau, 
he  found  the  article  in  question  and  read  it.  Parts  of  it 
he  read  several  times,  the  parts  referring  to  himself. 
They  were  very  complimentary,  and  pleased  him  as  much 
as  anything  that  had  ever  been  printed  about  him.  The 
whole  South,  the  paper  said,  was  justly  proud  of  her 
literary  son,  and  would  sympathize  with  him  in  the  keen 


THE    INNER   LAW 

pain  that  must  now  rest  on  a  young  man  of  such  refined 
and  exalted  nature.  Great  work  was  confidently  expected 
of  him  in  the  near  future,  and  even  the  trying  experience 
he  was  now  encountering  would  but  serve  to  ripen  the 
budding  genius  and  lyric  power  that  he  undoubtedly 
possessed. 

Carter  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  into  his  coat  pocket. 
A  warm  glow  suffused  him  from  head  to  foot.  After  all, 
he  was  not  an  ordinary,  humdrum  being,  he  told  himself 
as  he  moved  softly  back  to  his  father's  room  and  again 
seated  himself  by  the  bed.  Gilbert  looked  at  him  and 
smiled  as  a  child  might,  and  he  rose  and  went  to  him, 
taking  the  medicine  Milicent  had  brought. 

"I  think  you'd  better  drink  this,"  he  said.  "You 
seem  restless,  and  it  will  make  you  sleep." 

Raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  Gilbert  obeyed,  and  then 
with  a  little  sigh  reclined  again.  All  at  once  a  veritable 
storm  of  shame  swept  over  the  son.  Was  it  possible  that 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  enjoy  mere  compliments  such  as 
he  had  been  reading  while  actually  facing  the  most  ter 
rible  of  disasters? 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair,  watching  the  pale  face  on  the 
pillow  and  reflecting  poignantly  on  himself.  Gilbert  had 
closed  his  eyes.  In  a  moment  he  was  sleeping  soundly. 
Carter  rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  holding  his  head 
between  his  hands,  wondering,  wondering  now  as  to  his 
own  complexity,  his  own  shallowness. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  his  visit  to  the  country,  next 
into  his  mind  came  that  first  meeting  with  Lydia  in  the 
library,  then  other  meetings,  and  finally  that  last  after 
noon  in  the  cabin,  and  with  that  he  found  himself  burning 
with  passionate  memories — memories  which  for  the  mo 
ment  held  no  regrets.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at 
the  form  on  the  bed.  The  yellow  face  was  that  of  a 
corpse — the  corpse  of  his  loved  father,  and  yet  even  at 
a  moment  like  that  he  was  unable  to  quench  the  fleshly 

90 


THE    INNER    LAW 

fires  within  him.  His  father  would  die  soon — had  the 
doctor  not  said  so  ?  He  would  leave  him  a  great  fortune, 
and  with  that  fortune  he  could  do  as  he  liked.  He  could 
live  where  he  wished  and  satisfy  every  desire.  The 
world  would  marvel  at  the  creations  of  his  pen.  The  life 
stretching  out  before  him  would  be  a  perfect  one. 

The  clock  had  struck  twelve.  He  must  lie  down  and 
rest.  He  took  off  his  clothing  and  reclined  beside  his 
father,  stretching  out  his  plump,  rosy  limbs  beside  the 
emaciated  ones.  He  rested  his  young,  shaven  face  close 
to  the  old  face  that  was  covered  with  grizzled  beard  and 
splotched  with  the  brown  marks  of  encroaching  death. 

Roused  by  the  motion  of  the  bed,  Gilbert  turned  on  his 
side  and  stared  into  the  eyes  of  his  son.  He  sighed  con 
tentedly,  smiled,  slid  his  moist  hand  down  by  his  side 
into  Carter's,  and  pressed  his  fingers.  Carter  returned 
the  pressure,  and  as  he  did  so  that  incongruous,  almost 
maternal,  feeling  of  pity  and  tenderness  swept  over  him 
again.  He  lay  still,  almost  holding  his  breath,  his  fingers 
clinging  to  his  father's.  Suddenly  he  thought  of  Lydia, 
of  how  he  had  overpowered  her  and  was  now  shocked  at 
the  realization  of  his  lost  honor.  He  was  inclined  to 
pray,  but  what  was  there  to  pray  about  ?  Vaguely  he  felt 
that  he  needed  help  from  outside  himself,  from  the  great 
Principle  of  Good  which  he  had  called  God,  but  he  was 
not  now  ready  to  ask  for  it.  Only  the  clean  could  ap 
proach  infinite  cleanliness,  and  he  was  unclean.  Yes,  he 
was  unclean,  and  he  had  been  despicably  weak.  His  uncle 
had  duly  warned  him  of  the  inborn  family  failing,  but  the 
warning  had  been  unheeded.  He  felt  the  fingers  of  his 
father  relaxing.  Gilbert  was  asleep;  but  his  son  lay 
awake  the  greater  part  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  arrangements  were  completed  for  the  removal  of 
the  demented  man  to  the  sanitarium  at  Cincinnati. 
The  chief  fear  that  Carter  had  was  that  as  the  hour  for 
leaving  approached  Gilbert  might  refuse  to  go,  and  the 
use  of  force  in  any  form  seemed  out  of  the  question. 
However,  as  Larkin  was  packing  the  old  man's  trunk 
Gilbert  stood  near  and  showed  signs  of  interest.  Once 
while  this  was  going  on  he  turned  to  his  son  and,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  whispered,  cautiously: 

"Don't  let  them  know  where  we  are  going.  It  is  none 
of  their  business.  We've  got  to  give  them  the  slip." 

Overhearing  this,  Milicent  nodded  knowingly  to  her 
brother  and  quietly  left  the  room. 

"I'm  glad  she  is  gone,"  Gilbert  said,  slyly,  with  an  un 
canny  grimace.  "She  thinks  she  can  fool  me.  But  I 
am  on  to  her.  She  was  asking  me  yesterday  if  I'd  paid 
up  my  life-insurance.  She  thinks  I'm  going  to  die." 

That  evening,  when  Larkin  brought  the  carriage  to  the 
door  and  took  down  the  hand-bags,  Gilbert  went  about 
shaking  hands  with  the  servants  almost  with  the  glee 
of  a  happy  child.  He  even  submitted  to  a  kiss  from 
Milicent,  seeming  to  have  forgotten  his  suspicions  against 
her.  Henry  was  not  there.  He  had  not  been  at  home 
all  that  day. 

When  the  moment  for  leaving  came  Carter  led  his 
father  down  to  the  carriage  and  got  in  beside  him.  He 
gave  the  order  to  Larkin  and  they  drove  away  rapidly. 
The  thought  went  hurtling  through  the  young  poet's 

92 


THE    INNER    LAW 

brain  that  his  father  was  leaving  his  home  for  ever,  and 
with  that  a  great  depression  came  over  him.  How  hor 
rible  to  die  like  that!  How  horrible  to  linger  in  life  like 
a  whimsical  child  in  the  tottering  form  of  an  old  man 
surrounded  by  the  useless  things  your  own  life-energy 
had  created!  Carter  felt  physically  weak.  He  had 
scarcely  eaten  enough  to  sustain  him,  so  great  had  been 
the  strain  on  his  mind,  but  he  told  himself  that  once  the 
responsibility  of  his  father's  care  was  off  his  shoulders 
he  would  be  himself  again.  Through  the  lighted  streets 
the  carriage  rolled.  Gilbert  was  looking  about  curiously, 
and  a  great  fear  came  to  Carter  that  he  might  at  any 
moment  change  his  mood  and  refuse  to  go.  But  the  train 
was  reached  without  halt  or  delay.  They  arrived,  as 
was  their  intention,  only  a  few  minutes  before  leaving- 
time,  and  found  the  drawing-room  in  the  Pullman  ready 
for  them.  Gilbert  allowed  himself  to  be  conducted  to 
it,  vaguely  staring  here  and  there  as  if  he  scarcely  under 
stood  what  it  was  all  about.  When  the  train  started 
he  sprang  up  and  ran  to  a  window,  a  look  of  alarm  on 
his  face.  But  Carter  touched  him  on  the  arm  and  drew 
him  down  to  a  seat. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  Gilbert  questioned. 

"To  Cincinnati,"  Carter  answered. 

"To  Cincinnati?  Wh-what  for?"  was  the  groping 
question. 

"Because  that  is  best,"  the  son  answered,  noticing  that 
some  of  the  passengers  were  looking  and  listening  in 
surprise. 

"But  I  want  to  see  Charley  Farnham  about  the  rail 
road  deal,"  Gilbert  began,  rebelliously.  "I  want  to  go  to 
the  bank,  too,  and  attend  to  some  of  my  business.  Let's 
get  off." 

Dismay  filled  the  young  man.  How  was  he  to  control 
such  an  irrational  creature  before  strangers,  who  would 
certainly  object  to  such  a  questionable  fellow-passenger? 

93 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Gilbert  was  now  standing  in  the  drawing-room  door 
way.  "I  want  to  see  Charley,  I  say.  Stop  the  train!" 

"Farnham  is  to  meet  us  in  Cincinnati  in  the  morning," 
Carter  bethought  himself  to  say,  though  he  said  it  tremu 
lously  and  with  his  heart  in  his  tight  throat. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  eh?" 

"Yes,  he  will  be  there;  now  come  sit  down.  We  are 
going  to  bed  pretty  soon." 

"That's  good,"  Gilbert  chuckled  as  he  turned  back 
to  his  seat.  "Charley's  all  right,  eh?  A  regular  wheel- 
horse?" 

"Yes,  he's  all  right.  He  is  managing  everything  finely." 
Carter  started  to  close  the  drawing-room  door,  seeing 
that  some  of  the  passengers  were  peering  curiously  at 
them ;  but  Gilbert  sprang  up  again,  fiercely  threw  out  his 
hand,  and  stopped  him. 

"Don't  shut  me  up  here!  Don't,  I  tell  you!"  he  fairly 
screamed.  "I  want  air!" 

There  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  humor  him,  and, 
terrified  by  the  situation,  Carter  allowed  him  to  stand 
in  the  doorway,  rocking  to  and  fro.  Presently  Carter 
got  him  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa,  but  the  noise  of  the 
wheels,  the  hurried  movements  of  the  passengers,  con 
ductor,  and  porters  seemed  to  have  unduly  excited  the 
old  man.  He  was  constantly  jumping  up  and  asking 
unimportant  questions  of  any  one  who  happened  to  pass. 
He  went  through  the  entire  car,  smiling  and  bowing 
suavely  to  the  passengers,  some  of  whom  stared  coldly 
and  shrank  back  into  their  seats  in  alarm.  Carter  caught 
himself  looking  at  them  all  appealingly,  trying  to  make 
his  eyes  plead  his  cause.  There  was  no  pride  left  in  him 
now.  He  was  at  the  mercy  of  strangers,  and  hoped  they 
would  see  his  plight  and  bear  with  him,  even  aid  him. 
Finally  he  got  his  father  back  to  the  drawing-room;  but 
Gilbert  stoutly  refused  to  be  undressed  for  bed.  Carter 
succeeded  in  taking  off  his  shoes  and  coat  and  vest,  but 

94 


THE   INNER   LAW 

that  was  all.  Carter  decided  not  to  undress  himself,  for 
there  was  no  knowing  what  whim  might  come  to  the  old 
man  in  the  night.  Most  of  the  berths  in  the  car  were 
being  made  ready  when  Gilbert  rose  and  insisted  on 
starting  down  the  aisle  again.  He  had  got  half-way 
through  when  the  conductor,  followed  by  a  porter,  met 
him.  The  conductor  frowned. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  to  Carter,  who  was  holding  his 
father's  arm,  "but  this  really  can't  go  on.  I've  got  some 
nervous  women  aboard,  and  they  are  objecting.  They 
have  paid  their  fare  and  have  their  rights." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Carter  replied.  "I'm  doing  the  best 
I  can." 

"I  see  you  are,  and  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  the  conductor 
returned;  "but  I  have  my  duty  to  perform.  The  com 
pany  looks  to  me  for  the  comfort  of  my  passengers,  and 
complaints  go  against  me." 

Aided  by  a  genial  negro  porter,  Carter  succeeded  in 
getting  the  old  man  back  to  his  berth.  From  that  mo 
ment  till  daybreak  was  a  continuous  nightmare  to  Car 
ter.  Gilbert  laughed  aloud.  He  wept.  He  whined. 
He  whimpered.  He  sang  snatches  of  songs.  Finally,  in 
sheer  exhaustion,  he  fell  asleep;  but  there  was  no  sleep 
for  his  son.  With  his  hands  locked  between  his  knees 
Carter  sat  watching  the  lightly  sleeping  man.  He  won 
dered  if  any  human  being  had  ever  suffered  quite  as  he 
was  suffering.  He  was  so  morbidly  constituted  that  he 
could  all  but  feel  his  father's  disease  gnawing  like  in 
sects  into  his  own  brain.  He  remembered  that  the  doc 
tor  had  said  that  paresis  was  not  hereditary,  but  would 
a  doctor  tell  the  truth  to  a  son  of  such  a  patient?  Might 
he  not  even  now  be  falling  a  victim  to  the  grim  horror? 
For  an  hour  or  more  he  allowed  these  terrible  breedings 
to  rest  on  him,  unaware  that  they  were  due  to  his  nervous 
and  physical  exhaustion. 

The  gray  light  of  morning  was  creeping  in  at  the  sides 

95 


THE    INNER    LAW 

of  the  closely  drawn  curtains.  A  porter  was  going 
through  the  car  extinguishing  the  dim  overhead  lights. 
Looking  along  the  aisle,  Carter  saw  that  none  of  the 
passengers  were  up.  He  motioned  to  the  negro,  and 
when  the  man  approached  he  whispered: 

"Are  we  on  time?" 

"  Yes,  boss,"  the  negro  returned.  "  It  is  five  now;  we'll 
be  in  the  city  by  seven." 

Gilbert  slept  on.  Every  moment  thus  passed  was 
valued  by  his  son.  The  asylum  to  which  they  were  going 
seemed  the  most  desired  goal  of  his  whole  life.  Unspeak 
able  horrors  and  further  humiliation  could  happen  at  any 
moment.  Gilbert  might  wake  in  the  mood  of  a  demon 
enraged  by  restraint.  The  lives  of  the  passengers  might 
be  in  danger.  A  panic  in  the  car  might  ensue.  The 
demented  man  might  have  to  be  beaten,  bound,  and 
thrust  from  the  train.  Was  ever  a  more  foolish  journey 
undertaken? 

But,  as  if  in  answer  to  an  unuttered  prayer,  Gilbert 
slept  on.  The  warm  sunlight  of  another  hot  day  was 
streaming  into  the  car.  The  curtains  at  all  the  berths 
were  being  removed.  The  passengers,  only  partly  clad, 
were  going  to  and  from  the  dressing-rooms,  jostling 
against  the  seats.  Carter  felt  the  fine  dust  of  travel  on 
his  face  and  hands,  and  saw  it  on  his  father's  cheeks  and 
brow,  but  was  afraid  to  leave  his  post.  However,  just 
before  reaching  their  destination  he  managed  to  get  away 
and  hastily  made  his  toilet.  Then  with  a  dampened  towel 
he  returned  and  wiped  his  father's  face,  thus  waking  him. 
To  his  great  relief  Gilbert  was  placid  and  even  pleased. 
From  the  window  he  watched  the  houses  of  the  suburb 
through  which  the  train  was  passing,  and  quite  eagerly 
helped  his  son  repack  their  bags. 

"Where's  Farnham  going  to  be?"  he  asked. 

"At  a  hotel,"  Carter  replied,  helplessly.  "We  have  to 
take  a  carriage  to  it.  It  is  a  little  way  out  of  town." 


THE    INNER    LAW 

Gilbert  chuckled  and  rubbed  his  hands  together. 
"Great  ch-ch-chap,  that  boy!  He'll  help  us  get  away 
from  those  sneaking  devils,  won't  he?" 

"Yes,  he'll  help  us."  The  train  had  stopped  and  the 
porter  had  taken  their  bags  out.  "Come  on,  now;  let's 

go." 

"What  t-t-town  is  it?" 

"Cincinnati.  You  know  we  are  to  meet  Farnham  here 
to  see  about  the  railroad?  The  driver  will  take  us  to 
him." 

"But  I'm  hungry  and  I  want  m-m-my  coffee." 

"Then  we'll  get  something  at  a  restaurant  outside." 

"All  right,  then;  let's  hurry.  We  are  giving  them  the 
slip,  eh?" 

"Yes.    Come  on." 

As  they  were  descending  to  the  ground  Carter  saw  a 
group  of  four  or  five  passengers  at  the  steps.  Some  of 
them  glared  at  him  resentfully,  and  as  he  walked  on,  hold 
ing  his  father's  arm,  he  heard  an  elderly  woman  say: 
"It  is  an  outrage.  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink.  He  was 
making  a  noise  all  night.  I  was  afraid  he'd  cut  our 
throats.  Just  think  of  it — only  a  curtain  between  us  and 
a  raving  maniac!" 

There  was  a  cafe*  across  the  street  with  some  food  dis 
played  in  a  window,  and  Gilbert  strode  hastily  toward  it. 
Entering  the  dining-room,  Carter  selected  a  small  table 
in  a  corner,  and  they  took  seats  at  it.  Gilbert  wore  his 
hat,  and  for  a  moment  protested  against  its  removal. 
A  negro  waiter  came  to  take  their  order,  wondering  over 
the  old  man's  conduct. 

"Bring  us  eggs  and  bacon  and  coffee,"  Carter  said. 
"We  are  going  to  the  country  at  once.  Will  you  have  a 
carriage  at  the  door?" 

' '  Yes.  There  is  one  at  the  stand  around  the  corner,"  the 
negro  answered.  "It  will  be  ready  for  you,  sir." 

Gilbert  now  sat  idly  twirling  his  thumbs  over  his  folded 
7  97 


THE   INNER   LAW 

napkin.  A  puzzled  expression  was  on  his  face,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  recall  something  which  vaguely  haunted 
his  memory.  He  glanced  out  at  the  window  and  -  p  at 
the  roofs  of  the  tall  buildings  with  the  groping  curiosity 
of  a  child  awaking  amid  new  surroundings. 

"W-w-where  are  we?"  he  suddenly  asked,  his  lip  trem 
bling  piteously.  "I  don't  know  this  street  or — or  those 
houses." 

Carter  made  no  reply,  for  the  waiter  was  bringing  the 
breakfast,  which  completely  held  his  father's  attention. 
With  quivering  hands  Gilbert  poured  out  his  coffee,  and 
began  to  drink  it  when  it  was  so  hot  that  it  burnt  his 
lips.  This  made  him  furious,  and,  stamping  his  foot,  he 
swore  at  the  waiter,  who  smiled  at  Carter  as  if  he  under 
stood  and  sympathized.  Gilbert  began  to  eat,  ignoring 
his  knife  and  fork  and  putting  his  food  into  his  mouth 
with  his  fingers.  Carter  ate,  but  with  little  appetite, 
for  his  anguish  seemed  to  have  affected  his  whole  phys 
ical  organism.  Through  the  window  he  saw  a  carriage 
drive  up  to  the  door,  and,  glancing  at  the  waiter,  he 
said: 

"Please  put  our  bags  in,  and  tell  the  driver  we'll  be 
right  out." 

Breakfast  over,  Gilbert  followed  his  son  to  the  car 
riage.  He  had  taken  a  handful  of  toothpicks  from  the 
table  and  was  nervously  chewing  some  of  them.  At  the 
open  door  he  suddenly  drew  back  and  stared  up  and  down 
the  street,  a  hint  of  rebellion  in  his  manner. 

Carter  touched  his  arm  and  said :  "Get  in;  let's  go." 

"Where  t-t-to?"  Gilbert's  brow  was  wrinkled  in  per 
plexity. 

"To  Farnham's  hotel.     He's  waiting  for  us." 

"Oh,  he  is!  Well,  he's  all  right.  He's  our  friend, 
anyway,  you  may  bet  your  boots  on  th-th-that." 

Gilbert  bowed  his  head  and  got  into  the  carriage.  In 
a  low  tone  Carter  gave  the  address  of  the  sanitarium. 

98 


THE   INNER   LAW 

The  driver  nodded  significantly.  "All  right.  I  know 
the  place.  I've  been  there  many  a  time." 

Carter  was  about  to  get  in  when  his  father  stopped  him 
by  trying  to  get  out. 

"What's  this  for?"  he  demanded,  one  foot  already 
out. 

"It's  a  nice  ride,  sir — mighty  nice,"  the  driver  said, 
with  a  pacific  smile.  "It's  through  the  woods  all  the 
way — cool,  shady,  and  nice  in  hot  weather  like  this." 

"We  are  going  to  meet  Farnham,"  Carter  said,  des 
perately.  "  He  is  waiting  for  us." 

"Oh  y-y-yes,  Farnham!"  Gilbert  sank  back  in  the 
carriage,  and  his  son  got  in  and  closed  the  door. 

The  cool  morning  air  swept  in  at  the  window  as  the 
vehicle  moved  swiftly  along,  and  the  distraught  young 
man  began  to  feel  hopeful.  His  responsibility  would  soon 
be  over,  he  told  himself,  and  alluring  pictures  of  what  he 
would  do  when  he  was  free  once  more  began  to  flit  through 
his  mind.  There  was  a  book  he  wanted  to  see,  and  it  was 
likely  that  it  could  be  found  in  the  public  library  of  the 
city.  The  magazines  for  the  month  were  just  out,  and 
he  wanted  to  see  if  a  poem  he  had  sold  to  one  of  them 
had  been  published.  He  liked  the  poem  very  much,  and 
he  wanted  his  friends  to  see  it  in  print.  He  wondered  if 
the  editor  would  have  it  illustrated  and  give  it  the  full 
page  it  deserved. 

They  were  soon  in  the  country.  Trees  dropped  their 
thick  branches  over  the  narrow  road.  There  were  little 
hills  to  ascend  and  shady  vales  to  pass  through.  The 
motion  of  the  carriage  had  a  sedative  effect  on  the  old 
man.  Gradually  his  head  sank  back  on  his  son's  arm; 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  slept.  Again  that  odd,  inexpressible 
tumult  of  love  and  tenderness  captured  the  heart  of  the 
poet.  But  for  the  fear  of  waking  the  sleeper  he  would 
have  caressed  the  wrinkled  face  and  sunken  cheeks. 
Surely  this  love  of  which  he  had  become  conscious  only 

99 


THE    INNER    LAW 

since  his  father's  illness  was  a  queer  thing!  Was  it  be 
cause  a  father  in  his  weakness  was  being  fathered  by  his 
child,  or  was  there  even  a  deeper  psychic  meaning  behind 
it?  All  at  once  the  carriage  lurched  sharply;  Gilbert's 
inert  head  rocked,  and  his  cheek  came  in  contact  with 
that  of  his  son  and  lodged  there.  Under  a  yearning  im 
pulse,  Carter  stroked  the  opposite  cheek,  the  bristling 
beard  rasping  his  hand  and  producing  a  strange,  almost 
exquisite  thrill.  Something  impelled  him  further — some 
thing  too  deep  down  within  him  to  be  fathomed — some 
thing,  perhaps,  subconsciously  linked  with  the  childhood 
period  when  he  had  sat  upon  that  man's  knee  and  leaned 
against  a  breast  the  world  considered  sordid,  but  which 
was  not  wholly  so.  He  turned  his  face  and  kissed  the 
pale,  cool  brow.  Then  he  sat  still,  willingly  supporting 
the  rough  cheek  with  his  own. 

The  minutes  passed.  Thoughts  came  into  his  mind 
which  were  so  sadly  tender  in  character  that  his  throat 
tightened  with  tense  emotion.  He  thought  of  his  dead 
mother,  of  her  long  patience  with  her  preoccupied  hus 
band,  and  her  love  for  him.  He  thought  of  his  uncle 
and  his  unconquerable  sorrow  and  moody  manner.  He 
thought  of  the  old  servant-woman  at  the  farm,  Mrs. 
Romley,  and  then  he  thought  of  Lydia — Lydia,  pure, 
beautiful,  innocent;  Lydia  and  her  reluctant  kisses  and 
slow  confessions  of  love.  The  carriage  jostled  again,  the 
clammy  cheek  shook  his  own,  and  it  was  as  if  he  were 
waking  from  a  sensuous  dream  to  a  situation  too  horrible 
to  be  conceived.  The  cheek  of  the  dying  man  might  as 
well  be  that  of  a  corpse,  the  corpse  of  the  man  who  had 
given  him  life,  and  yet  at  such  a  moment  he  had  been 
actually  gloating  over  the  first  great  sin  of  his  life — a  sin 
he  had  once  thought  he  could  never  commit.  He  gently 
pushed  his  father's  head  from  him,  staring  at  the  closed 
lids  as  if  for  advice.  He  recalled  his  uncle's  talk  that 
night  in  the  summer-house;  he  recalled  how  absurd  it  hacl 

IPO 


THE   INNER   LAW 

seemed  that  the  old  man  should  have  fears  of  him,  who 
at  the  time  was  living  on  such  an  ideal  plane. 

"My  God!  my  God!  What  am  I?"  he  said,  all  but 
aloud.  His  father  opened  his  eyes  drowsily  and  stared 
at  him;  the  eyes  had  a  bloodshot  look  and  seemed  full 
of  reproach.  They  seemed  to  say:  "Why  did  you  go 
and  do  as  I  did,  as  my  brother  did,  as  Henry  did?  You 
were  warned  in  time.  You  could  see  what  we  had  come 
to,  all  three  of  us.  Take  the  advice  of  a  dying  man  and 
save  your  soul.  There  is  a  hell,  but  it  isn't  the  old- 
fashioned,  material  fire.  It  is  the  consuming  flames  of 
the  spirit.  The  worm  that  never  dies  is  the  conscience, 
and  it  will  writhe  on  the  coals  of  infinite  justice  till  it 
purifies  itself." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

""PHE  pace  of  the  horses  had  slackened.  Looking  out, 
1  Carter  saw  that  they  were  at  the  big  gate  of  the 
asylum  grounds.  A  man  on  guard  within  unlocked  it, 
and  the  gate  swung  open.  Just  ahead  of  them  stood  a 
great  four-story  white  building  with  a  long  veranda  in 
front  and  balconies  above.  The  grounds  were  shaded  by 
many  trees,  and  the  grass  of  the  lawn  was  well  cared  for. 
Under  the  trees  were  seats  where  the  most  tractable  of 
the  inmates  sat.  Some  of  them  looked  up  as  the  car 
riage  passed,  while  others  sat  staring  blankly  at  the 
ground. 

The  stopping  of  the  horses  at  the  door  roused  Gilbert. 
He  looked  about  him  in  a  perplexed  way  and  asked: 

''Is  this  th-th-the  hotel?" 

"Yes,  this  is  the  place,"  answered  his  son. 

"And  Char-Charley,  where  is  the  boy?" 

* '  Well  have  to  inquire, ' '  Carter  said,  evasively.  ' '  Let's 
go  inside." 

Gilbert  permitted  himself  to  be  helped  from  the  car 
riage  and  up  the  steps.  A  young  man  in  livery  met  them 
at  the  door,  bowing  perfunctorily. 

"Walk  into  the  parlor,"  he  said  to  Carter.  "The  doc 
tor  will  be  right  in." 

"The  doc-doctor—did  he  say  doctor?"  Gilbert  stut 
tered,  as  he  shuffled  along  to  the  parlor  door. 

"He  means  the  proprietor,"  his  son  said. 

"But  Char-Charley,  where  is  he?  You  said  he  would 
meet  us  here." 

102 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"We'll  ask  for  him  presently,"  Carter  said,  soothingly. 
They  took  seats  in  the  big  parlor  with  its  glaring  green 
carpet,  and  chairs  upholstered  in  flowered  satin.  A  piano 
stood  in  one  corner,  a  marble-topped  table  in  the  center 
of  the  room  holding  a  plush-covered  album  for  photo 
graphs.  On  the  plain  white  walls  were  some  large  steel- 
engravings  in  walnut  frames. 

A  moment  later  Dr.  Hamilton  came  in.  He  was  a 
man  of  sixty  years  of  age,  of  medium  height,  and  stock- 
ily  built.  His  eyes  were  dark,  his  short,  full  beard  and 
hair  were  black,  with  faint  touches  of  gray  above  the 
ears. 

"Ah,  this  is  Mr.  Crofton,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  advancing 
to  Gilbert,  his  hand  extended 

Gilbert  took  the  hand  reluctantly,  staring  in  an  im 
patient,  bewildered  way  into  the  broad,  strong  face. 

"Charley  Farnham.  I  want  to  see  him — Far-Farn- 
ham,  the  railroad  president,"  Gilbert  stammered. 

"Oh  yes,  yes;  I  see!"  the  doctor  smiled  at  Carter  know 
ingly  as  he  shook  hands  with  him.  "He  is  around  some 
where;  we'll  look  him  up.  But  you  must  go  up  to  your 
room  first" — he  turned  back  to  the  patient — "you've  had 
a  hard  trip  in  such  hot  weather,  and  must  wash  the  dust 
off  and  lie  down  and  rest.  Come  this  way." 

He  took  Gilbert's  arm  and  led  him  out  into  the  foyer 
and  to  an  elevator. 

"I'll  go  up  with  him  and  then  come  back  to  you,"  he 
whispered  to  Carter.  "Please  wait  in  the  parlor." 

The  elevator  closed  on  him  and  Gilbert,  who  was  star 
ing  perplexedly  about  him. 

Carter  sat  alone  in  the  parlor,  conscious  of  inexpressible 
relief  in  having  the  responsibility  of  his  charge  taken 
from  him.  After  half  an  hour  had  passed  he  heard  the 
elevator  door  open,  and  Dr.  Hamilton  came  in.  He 
smiled  as  he  sat  down  and  began  to  break  the  tip  from  a 
cigar  with  his  thumb-nail. 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"I  presume,  from  Dr.  Lloyd's  letter,  that  he  has  al 
ready  informed  you  of  the  gravity  of  your  father's  con 
dition?" 

Carter  nodded;  and  the  doctor  went  on: 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you,  after  the  examination 
I  have  just  made,  that  your  father's  condition  is  even 
worse  than  I  expected.  From  the  symptoms  the  disease 
is  progressing  very  rapidly.  He  may  at  any  moment 
have  a  more  severe  attack  than  he  has  had,  and  he  may 
remain  as  he  is  for  a  month  or  more.  At  any  rate,  it  is 
well  for  him  to  be  here,  and  I  assure  you  that  he  shall 
have  the  best  attention.  I  shall  examine  him  again  to 
morrow.  May  I  ask  if  you  wish  to  return  to  Atlanta 
at  once?" 

"I  thought  I'd  stay  here  awhile,"  Carter  answered; 
"that  is,  if  you—" 

"Oh,  we  have  plenty  of  room  for  visitors!"  Dr.  Hamil 
ton  broke  in;  "but  I  think  if  I  were  in  your  place,  Mr. 
Crofton,  I'd  stay  in  town.  I  can  see  by  looking  at  you  " — 
here  the  doctor  took  his  wrist  and  tested  the  pulse — "  that 
you  are  somewhat  unstrung  yourself,  which,  of  course, 
is  due  to  sympathy,  and  in  your  condition  I  think  the 
surroundings  here  would  not  be  best.  I  can  keep  in 
touch  with  you  by  the  'phone  and  inform  you  of  any 
change  in  your  father's  condition." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  are  right,"  Carter  returned.  "  I'll  go 
to  a  hotel  in  town,  and  come  out  every  day.  The  car 
riage  is  waiting  and  I  will  go  back  in  it.  How  does  my 
father  take  the — the  restraint?" 

"Oh,  as  well  as  we  could  expect.  He  has  been  a  man 
of  strong  will,  and  he  has  not  lost  it  all,  low  as  he  is.  But 
don't  worry.  Long  experience  has  taught  us  the  best 
way  to  handle  such  patients.  Now  take  my  advice  and 
think  as  little  of  this  matter  as  possible.  Go  about  and 
amuse  yourself  in  town.  You  are  of  a  highly  nervous 
type  and  need  diversion — now  especially.  Lloyd  writes 

104 


THE    INNER    LAW 

me  that  you  are  a  poet.  I  haven't  had  the  pleasure  of 
reading  any  of  your  work.  In  fact,  I  read  nothing  at  all 
now  except  the  newspapers.  I  haven't  time.  I'm  busy 
night  and  day.  But  you  must  take  care  of  yourself 
and  throw  all  this  off  as  much  as  possible.  Don't  brood 
over  it.  It  won't  do  you  a  bit  of  good.  Worrying  over 
business  has  had  much  to  do  with  your  father's  breakdown. 
Don't  follow  in  his  footsteps." 


CHAPTER  XV 

HOW  differently  the  world  appeared  as  Carter  drove 
back  to  the  city!  The  light  of  the  afternoon  sun 
seemed  to  hold  a  vague  promise  of  infinite  hope  and 
peace.  The  most  awful  ordeal  he  had  ever  met  was  over. 
He  had  done  his  duty.  He  was  sure  that  many  young 
men  would  have  shirked  the  thing  he  had  undertaken 
and  accomplished.  His  heart  warmed  even  toward  the 
carriage  driver,  whom  he  intended  to  tip  liberally.  He 
was  sure  the  man  might  look  upon  him  with  more  interest 
if  he  knew  that  he  was  not  only  the  son  of  a  rich  man, 
but  that  he  was  a  poet  whose  lyrics  a  considerable  part 
of  the  world  was  reading  with  delight.  Surely  the  fellow 
did  not  often  come  into  contact  with  a  real  poet.  It  was 
quite  likely  that  he  had  never  served  one,  and  if  he  were 
informed  of  this  fact  in  regard  to  his  present  passenger  it 
might  please  him.  He  might  have  a  wife  and  children 
at  home,  and  close  friends  to  whom  he  would  relate  the 
circumstances  with  natural  pride. 

Arriving  at  the  hotel,  he  paid  the  driver,  and  added  a 
tip  that  surprised  the  fellow  and  caused  him  to  bow  pro 
fusely. 

"  You'll  be  going  out  again,  I  guess/'  the  man  said, 
eagerly.  "I'll  be  on  the  lookout  for  you." 

"Yes,  I'll  go  out  every  day  for  a  while,  I  think,"  Car 
ter  returned.  "I'll  be  busy  in  town  part  of  the  time.  I 
have  a  lot  of  writing  to  do.  That  is  my  profession.  I 
am  a  poet." 

"A  poet,"  the  driver  said,  absent-mindedly,  as  he 

106 


THE   INNER   LAW 

glanced  toward  his  horses.  "Well,  I  hope  I  gave  you 
satisfaction,  sir.  I  understand  my  work.  I  can  drive 
fast  or  slow,  just  as  you  see  fit.  Just  ask  anybody  about 
town  if  they  know  Jack  Larrigan.  They  all  know  me 
and  call  me  just  'Jack.'  I  know  high  and  low — lawyers, 
doctors,  politicians,  gamblers,  barkeepers,  and  the  chief  of 
the  police.  I  had  the  mayor  and  his  family  in  my  rig  only 
yesterday,  and  Senator  Gibbs  wires  me  to  meet  him  at 
the  station  every  time  he  comes  home  from  Washington." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  see,"  said  the  poet,  vaguely  crestfallen. 
"Well,  I'll  look  you  up,  Jack."  And  as  he  followed  a 
porter  into  the  foyer  of  the  great  hotel  he  was  conscious 
of  a  sort  of  chagrin  which  was  hard  to  define.  Without 
knowing  it,  the  driver  had  rebuked  him. 

At  the  desk,  behind  which  stood  several  dapper  clerks, 
he  registered  and  secured  the  best  chamber  with  a  private 
bath  and  sitting-room  that  was  available,  feeling  gratified 
by  the  clerk's  suddenly  lifted  brows  and  obsequious  man 
ner. 

"Do  you  wish  to  go  up  now,  Mr.  Crofton?"  he  asked, 
reaching  for  a  key. 

"Yes,"  Carter  answered. 

Even  the  negro  porter,  who  was  conducting  him  to 
the  elevator,  was  obviously  influenced  by  the  number 
of  the  choice  suite  which  the  clerk  had  called  out,  for 
Carter  heard  him  whisper  it  to  one  of  his  fellows  as  they 
passed  a  row  of  bell-boys  seated  against  a  wall. 

"After  all,"  Carter  reflected,  as  he  lay  in  the  tub  of 
the  sumptuous  bath-room,  "I  can't  help  matters,  and  I 
ought  to  take  the  doctor's  advice  and  not  worry." 

He  dried  himself,  and  with  a  newspaper  and  cigar  lay 
down  on  the  lounge  in  his  sitting-room,  conscious  of  a 
sense  of  vast  restfulness  and  actual  content.  He  was 
hungry,  now  that  his  anxiety  was  over,  and  about  seven 
o'clock  he  got  up  and  dressed  for  dinner.  He  was  glad 
that  he  had  brought  his  evening  clothes,  for  he  had  al- 

107 


THE    INNER    LAW 

ways  thought  that  men  in  business  dress  in  fashionable 
cafes  appeared  out  of  place,  uncouth  and  unaccustomed 
to  the  usages  of  the  best  society. 

As  he  went  into  the  great  dining-room,  which  was 
lighted  from  crystal  chandeliers,  the  gay  scene  charmed 
his  fancy.  At  the  far  end  there  was  an  orchestra  in  a 
balcony  decorated  with  palms,  and  they  were  playing  a 
selection  from  an  opera  which  he  admired.  He  was  in 
spired  by  the  air,  and  his  bouyant  step,  as  he  followed 
the  head  waiter  to  a  small  table  on  one  side  of  the  room, 
was  sympathetically  conformed  to  it.  There  were  many 
diners  of  both  sexes  in  the  room,  and  all  were  in  evening 
dress.  After  he  had  given  his  order  he  sent  for  an  after 
noon  paper,  and  while  he  was  waiting  for  his  dinner  to 
be  brought  he  convinced  himself  that  he  was  reading  the 
news,  while,  in  fact,  he  scarcely  took  in  a  line  of  the 
paper's  contents.  The  personal  column,  however,  set 
him  to  thinking  that,  since  the  reporters  of  daily  journals 
often  looked  over  the  registers  of  the  leading  hotels,  they 
might  see  his  name  and  make  note  of  his  arrival  as  a 
man  of  importance.  Indeed,  they  might  even  seek  to 
interview  him  on  the  subject  of  current  literature,  as  an 
Atlanta  paper  had  once  done.  That  interview  had  been 
a  tribute  to  his  genius,  and  he  had  mailed  many  copies 
of  it  to  his  friends,  and  had  preserved  it  in  a  well-worn 
scrap-book. 

At  a  table  close  to  his  own  sat  a  family  group,  a  middle- 
aged  man  and  woman  with  three  young  ladies,  evidently 
their  daughters.  The  youngest  and  tallest  of  the  three 
girls  was  strikingly  pretty.  He  told  himself  that  she  was 
a  veritable  human  flower,  a  regal  white  rose.  He  was 
sure  she  loved  poetry.  He  had  met  many  such,  and  they, 
all  of  them,  had  liked  to  have  him  read  his  poems  to  them. 
She  sat  very  erect,  her  long  lashes  lowered.  Her  hands 
were  delicate  and  tapering,  her  abundant  brown  hair  fell 
back  in  artistic  waves  from  her  fine  white  brow,  and  was 

108 


THE    INNER    LAW 

fastened  in  a  graceful  knot  at  the  back.  He  stared  at  her 
covertly  from  behind  his  paper.  He  was  sure  that  she 
had  noticed  him.  How  romantic  it  would  be,  he  thought, 
if  by  some  chance  they  should  meet  through  some  com 
mon  acquaintance  who  happened  to  come  along!  He 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  imagined  her  surprise  at  being 
informed  that  her  admirer  was  none  other  than  Carter 
Crofton,  of  whose  rare  gift  so  much  was  being  said,  and 
who,  for  the  sake  of  his  work,  had  become  something  of 
a  recluse,  though  not  quite  the  woman-hater  as  had  been 
stated.  However,  she  was  taking  no  further  notice  of 
him  now,  for  her  parents  and  sisters  were  rising  from  the 
table  and  leaving  the  room.  His  eyes  followed  her  as  she 
walked  toward  the  door.  She  really  had  the  slow  awk 
wardness  of  an  overgrown  school-girl,  but  this  was  not 
apparent  to  him.  In  fact,  he  was  sure  she  danced  di 
vinely  and  had  a  mind  worth  knowing.  He  sighed,  for 
it  struck  him  that  they  would  perhaps  never  meet,  never 
in  the  great  wide  world. 

When  his  dinner  was  over  he  went  into  the  foyer,  and 
thence  into  a  smoking-room.  Finding  a  card  of  amuse 
ments,  he  looked  it  over.  The  plays  at  the  theaters  did 
not  appeal  to  his  fancy,  so  he  decided  that  he  would  go 
to  a  certain  famous  beer-garden  on  "The  Heights."  He 
had  heard  some  of  his  college  friends  speak  of  the  resort 
as  well  worth  a  visit.  Wearing  his  silk  top-hat  and  stylish 
gray  overcoat,  and  smoking  a  fragrant  cigar,  he  went  out 
side  and  had  an  attendant  call  a  cab  for  him. 

As  the  cab  bore  him  along  a  vast  content  rested  on  him. 
It  was  a  glorious  thing  to  be  young,  wealthy,  and  gifted; 
and  those  things  had  not  been  sought  by  him;  they  had 
come  to  him  as  a  birthright.  His  father  was  dying,  but 
Gilbert  Crofton  was  old;  all  men  have  to  die  when  their 
time  comes,  and  their  children  ought  not  to  be  sad  over 
the  inevitable — and  yet,  and  yet  the  broken  man  might 
even  now  be  asking  for  him,  wondering  why  he  was  not 

109 


THE    INNER    LAW 

there,  weeping,  pleading,  declaring  that  a  trick  had  been 
played  on  him  by  his  enemies — perhaps  now  suspecting 
that  his  favorite  son  had  also  turned  against  him.  Per 
haps  Gilbert  had  rebelled  against  restraint,  necessary- 
force  had  been  used  and  bodily  pain  inflicted.  If  so  it 
would  never  be  known,  for,  of  course,  such  establishments 
had  their  private  methods.  A  thrill  of  horror  accom 
panied  by  a  wave  of  incongruous  grief  passed  over  him. 
Ah,  the  helpless  old  man  now  realized  that  he  was  deserted, 
a  prisoner  among  strangers!  Perhaps  sufficient  reason 
remained  to  make  the  realization  to  such  a  man  as  Gil 
bert  Crofton  terrible  in  the  extreme. 

The  cab  was  putting  him  down  at  the  door  of  the  beer- 
garden.  Lively  music  came  from  the  crowded  place. 
His  gloom  was  lifting.  Why  should  he  worry?  he  asked 
himself.  That  would  do  no  one  any  good.  On  a  platform 
a  group  of  Tyrolian  singers  in  peasant  dress  were  yodeling 
and  dancing  merrily.  Carter  admired  the  form  of  one 
of  the  young  women  very  much,  and  as  he  took  a  seat  at 
a  table  quite  near  the  platform  he  looked  up  at  her,  smiled 
patronizingly,  and  clapped  his  hands  approvingly.  She 
may  have  been  the  faithful  wife  of  the  singer  next  to  her, 
and  yet  she  smiled  back  with  appreciation,  for  the  rich 
dress  and  youthful  face  of  her  admirer  indicated  that  he 
was  perhaps  a  college  student  who  belonged  to  a  privileged 
class  in  the  eyes  of  many  vaudeville  performers.  An  idea 
for  an  Alpine  poem  flashed  into  his  mind.  He  was  sure 
he  already  had  a  good  first  line  and  a  fine  title.  He  must 
not  forget  it,  and,  taking  a  pencil  from  his  pocket,  he 
made  a  note  on  the  margin  of  the  program.  Then  he 
ordered  beer  of  the  man  who  was  removing  the  empty 
glasses  and  wiping  the  damp  table.  When  the  beer  came 
he  raised  his  glass  and,  catching  the  singer's  eye,  play 
fully  indicated  that  he  was  drinking  her  health.  She 
bowed,  smiled,  and  made  a  pretty  feint  of  responding  by 
raising  her  cupped  hand  to  her  painted  lips.  Some  of  the 

no 


THE   INNER   LAW 

audience  noticed  the  little  flirtation  and  smiled  good- 
naturedly.  This  pleased  our  poet,  for  he  felt  quite  the 
experienced  man  of  the  world  to-night,  and  was  sure  his 
easy  manner  and  dress  indicated  it.  He  began  to  wonder 
what  his  income  would  be  when  his  father  was  dead. 
He  tried  to  put  it  from  his  mind  as  unworthy  of  considera 
tion  at  such  a  time,  but  it  persisted.  It  would  be  hand 
some;  he  knew  that  from  what  Farnham  had  said  about 
the  railroad.  Then  he  began  to  dream  of  the  life  before 
him.  He  would  live  in  the  best  fashion,  have  the  best 
things  money  could  buy.  He  would  pass  most  of  his  time 
in  Europe.  All  the  best  minds  had  lived  and  worked  in 
that  congenial  atmosphere,  and  why  should  not  he  do  so? 
He  would  write  only  when  he  felt  truly  inspired  and  show 
the  world  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  a  genius  to  occupy 
an  attic  to  be  at  his  best. 

A  rouged  woman  in  a  flashy  dress  was  smiling  at  him 
from  a  table  near  by.  Indifferently  he  nodded  and  re 
turned  the  smile.  She  inclined  her  head  to  the  vacant 
chair  on  her  right  and  winked,  thus  inviting  him  to  join 
her;  but  with  a  reluctant  smile  he  shook  his  head  and 
directed  his  attention  to  the  performers.  Such  a  common 
creature  was  not  for  him,  he  said  to  himself.  Then  his 
thoughts  drifted  into  a  more  serious  channel.  Perhaps 
she  was  once  an  innocent  girl  who  had  been  led  astray 
by  some  idle  trifler,  and  had  finally  sunk  to  this  manner 
of  earning  a  living.  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it  be 
fore?  What,  after  all,  was  to  become  of  Lydia — beauti 
ful,  trusting,  innocent  child  of  the  mountains?  What  was 
to  prevent  her  from  going  the  way  of  all  such  desperate 
creatures?  All  at  once  the  life  and  joy  went  out  of  the 
gay  scene  around  him.  The  music  had  lost  its  charm. 
He  sat  with  his  glance  on  his  dead  cigar,  his  second  glass 
of  beer  untouched.  Something  must  be  done,  but  what? 
Marriage  was  the  only  honorable  thing  for  some  men, 
but  that  was  out  of  the  question  in  his  case,  for  he  was 

in 


THE    INNER   LAW 

a  Crofton,  a  member  of  an  old  family,  a  man  of  wealth, 
a  genius.  The  Croftons  all  along  had  done  as  he  had  done. 
How  could  he  be  expected  to  act  differently  when  the 
tendency  was  inborn  and  not  to  be  eradicated?  In  fact, 
it  would  be  harder  for  him  to  marry  under  such  circum 
stances  than  it  would  have  been  for  Henry,  for  instance, 
for  the  world  had  already  taken  notice  of  him,  and  social 
as  well  as  mental  triumphs  were  expected  of  him.  No, 
no;  marriage  to  such  a  girl,  beautiful  and  true  as  she  was, 
was  absurd,  but  he  would  have  plenty  of  money  before 
long  and  she  should  be  amply  provided  for.  Perhaps  he 
might  take  her  with  him  abroad.  It  might  be  managed 
secretly.  He  could  give  her  the  prettiest,  most  costly 
things  to  wear.  He  could  show  her  the  great  foreign 
world.  She  would  be  grateful;  she  would  be  happy; 
she  would  adore  him;  they  could  be  together  whenever 
it  was  convenient.  Yes,  yes,  that  must  be  done.  It  was 
a  dazzling  solution  of  the  miserable  problem.  And  he 
loved  her — he  loved  her. 

He  got  up  and  started  out.  He  was  now  burning  with 
the  passionate  memories  of  their  last  meeting.  The 
women  who  sat  alone  at  various  tables,  and  who  glanced 
at  him  seductively  as  he  passed,  were  unnoticed.  Lydia, 
Lydia!  no  king  could  have  a  more  beautiful  mistress. 
He  would  teach  her  all  needed  things,  and,  above  all,  to 
understand  him.  After  all,  what  was  wrong  about  it? 
Was  he  not  more  European  by  nature  than  American? 
And  what  European  of  his  rank  and  fortune  would  let 
a  thing  like  that  mar  his  happiness? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday.  Carter  slept  till  ten 
o'clock,  and  then  arose  and  took  his  bath.  An  un 
accountable  feeling  of  morbid  depression  was  on  him, 
and  as  he  bathed  he  rubbed  his  skin  vigorously  to  give 
his  blood  better  circulation.  Before  dressing  he  took  his 
usual  exercises  by  swinging  his  arms  about  and  bending 
his  body  to  and  fro.  But  the  exercise  did  not  seem  to 
help  him  into  a  happier  mood,  and  presently  he  became 
aware  of  the  cause  of  this.  It  was  because  he  had  to  visit 
the  asylum.  He  might  not  be  permitted  to  see  his  father, 
but  he  would  have  to  see  the  grim,  accusing  place  of  his 
confinement  and  confer  with  its  manager.  How  much 
more  welcome  death  would  be,  since  death  had  to  come 
so  soon,  anyway,  than  this  prolonged  torture  of  those  who 
loved  the  doomed  man! 

There  was  a  telephone  in  his  sitting-room,  and,  seeing 
it,  Carter  suddenly  decided  to  call  up  Dr.  Hamilton. 
Perhaps  he  would  find  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  him 
to  go  out  that  day,  and  certainly  to-morrow  would  suit 
him  better. 

The  connection  was  made  and  he  was  soon  speaking  to 
Dr.  Hamilton. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  came  over  the  wire.  "I 
have  just  seen  your  father.  He  is  doing  as  well  as  I 
could  expect.  You,  of  course,  know  that  he  is  a  difficult 
patient  to  control,  but  every  possible  thing  is  being  done 
that  can  be  done." 

"I  was  wondering,  doctor,  if  there  would  be  any  use 

8  113 


THE    INNER   LAW 

in  my  coming  out  to-day,"  Carter  returned.  "I  am  still 
a  little  tired  from  my  trip  and  loss  of  sleep." 

"None  in  the  world,  Mr.  Crofton,"  the  answer  came 
quickly.  "In  fact,  if  you  came  to-day  I  should  not  let 
you  see  your  father,  for  it  would  not  be  advisable  now. 
To-morrow  I  think  you  may  see  him,  but  it  is  better  for 
him  to  be  alone  to-day.  I  assure  you  you  have  no  cause 
for  worry  at  present,  and  if  there  is  any  change  for  the 
worse  I'll  telephone  you  at  once." 

"Thank  you.  Very  well,  I'll  wait  till  to-morrow,"  said 
Carter,  and  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver  he  was  conscious 
of  a  sense  of  boundless  relief.  Now  he  could  be  himself 
and  spend  the  day  as  he  liked.  Under  a  little  glow  of 
anticipation  he  finished  dressing.  He  could  now  sit  over 
his  breakfast  with  the  morning  paper  and  enjoy  it  as  he 
would  also  enjoy  his  cigar  in  the  smoking-room  afterward. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  his  breakfast  was  over  and 
he  went  out  into  the  streets  for  a  stroll.  Why  was  he  so 
constantly  thinking,  in  connection  with  his  father's  ap 
proaching  end,  of  the  share  of  the  estate  which  would  fall 
to  him?  He  fairly  shuddered  under  the  weight  of  self- 
accusation,  and  yet  he  could  not  free  himself  from  the 
thought.  He  recalled  Gilbert's  chief  holdings  one  by 
one,  and  a  comforting  charm  hovered  over  each.  There 
were  the  Western  mining  stocks  which  were  constantly 
advancing  in  value;  the  investments  in  Southern  iron- 
ore  lands  and  iron-furnaces;  the  cotton-mills;  the  bank 
ing  shares;  the  United  States  bonds;  the  private  loans, 
large  and  small,  which  were  well  secured  by  real  estate 
and  good  collateral.  One-third  of  all  this  was  to  be  his 
own,  and  in  addition  there  was  the  special  gift  from  his 
father  of  the  interest  in  Farnham's  railroad,  which  his 
friend  had  assured  him  would  be  a  fortune  in  itself. 
Surely,  surely  he  was  a  lucky  man,  and  yet  something  was 
wrong  somewhere,  else  why  this  constant,  haunting  de 
pression?  Was  it  grief?  Was  it  the  shock  of  his  father's 

114 


THE   INNER   LAW 

breakdown?  Was  it  remorse?  He  could  not  answer. 
He  tried  to  revive  the  pleasure  the  anticipation  of  his 
coming  wealth  often  brought  to  him,  but  it  was  in  vain. 
Yes,  something  was  wrong — decidedly  wrong. 

As  he  strolled  aimlessly  along  the  streets  he  noticed 
groups  of  persons,  old  and  young,  in  their  best  attire, 
going  to  the  various  churches.  He  heard  a  bell  ringing 
in  the  tower  of  an  old-fashioned  edifice  near  by,  and  for 
no  special  reason  he  went  toward  it. 

Deep  down  within  him  lay  a  certain  respect  for  religious 
observances.  He  recalled,  with  a  touch  of  sadness,  how 
punctual  his  mother  had  been  in  her  attendance  at  the 
Presbyterian  service.  Milicent,  too,  was  religious,  in  a 
formal  way;  but  the  years  spent  at  a  Unitarian  college 
among  friends  who  were  free-thinkers  had  quite  deprived 
him  of  the  orthodox  faith.  He  no  longer  believed  the 
simple  biblical  stories  he  had  been  taught  in  childhood. 
He  told  himself  that  he  was  a  philosopher,  but  of  the 
idealistic  rather  than  the  materialistic  school.  It  was 
plain  to  him  that  all  true  poets  were  mystics,  and  if  he 
had  any  religion  it  was  that  of  Emerson,  Tennyson,  and 
Browning. 

He  went  into  the  vestibule  of  the  church,  paused  at  the 
door,  and  looked  in.  The  congregation  was  filing  in  and 
taking  seats.  A  polite  usher  offered  to  direct  him  to  a 
front  pew,  but  he  entered  one  close  to  the  door,  thinking 
that  he  might  more  easily  withdraw  if  he  felt  so  inclined. 
He  was  strongly  impressed  by  the  contented-looking  fam 
ily  groups  which  came  in  and  went  to  their  pews.  There 
were  mothers  and  fathers,  sons  and  daughters,  and  the 
sight  of  them  there  together,  the  young  bearing  resem 
blances  to  the  old,  struck  him  as  being  eminently  beautiful, 
but,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  vaguely  inadequate. 

Thereupon  his  morbidness  descended  upon  him  even 
more  heavily.  Family  life  was  certainly  good  and  essen 
tial.  The  fact  that  his  own  home  had  been  so  inhar- 


THE    INNER    LAW 

monious  made  him  more  keenly  appreciate  harmony  in 
other  homes.  He  caught  himself  looking  at  some  of  the 
sons  in  the  family  groups.  They  appeared  to  be  clean, 
pure-minded  young  men.  There  certainly  could  be  no  such 
complex  storm  raging  in  their  breasts  as  was  then  raging 
in  his.  He  was  sure — his  experience  with  young  men  of 
Puritan  descent  made  him  sure — that  not  one  of  those  in 
the  pews  now  holding  the  hymn-books  for  their  sisters  or 
mothers  could  ever  descend  to  the  unconventional  life 
abroad  which  he  had  planned  to  live  with  Lydia  as  an 
escape  from  the  consequences  of  the  wrong  he  had  done. 

After  all,  how  could  he  do  it?  What  would  be  the 
final  end  of  it  all?  Who  would  be  the  father  of  the  pos 
sible  children  of  such  a  nameless  union?  How  could  he 
marry  the  sort  of  woman  he  had  dreamed  of  as  his  wife 
if  he  were  then  living  with  and  actually  loving  the  partner 
of  his  first  great  sin? 

The  organ  was  being  played.  The  choir  rose  and  be 
gan  to  sing;  the  music  was  good,  but  it  made  him  all  the 
more  restless — all  the  more  wretched.  Rising,  he  left 
the  church.  Lydia,  Lydia,  poor  stranded,  misused, 
wrecked  creature!  Something  must  be  done,  but  what? 
He  was  to  blame;  yes,  yes,  he  was  to  blame,  wholly  to 
blame.  She  had  pleaded  with  him  like  a  beautiful,  cow 
ering  slave  sensing  disaster,  and  yet  in  the  hot  tumult 
of  his  passion  he  had  overpowered  her  and  shown  her  that 
the  will — the  desire  of  a  Crofton  would  not  be  thwarted, 
once  it  had  reached  the  point  of  bestial  demand. 

He  spent  the  remainder  of  that  day  in  loneliness  save 
for  the  companionship  of  unwelcome  reflections.  He 
walked  much,  and  when  he  returned  to  his  hotel  at  night 
he  was  greatly  fatigued. 

On  the  table  in  his  sitting-room  he  found  the  maga 
zines  he  had  ordered.  Almost  listlessly  he  turned  the 
leaves.  The  discovery  that  his  own  expected  poem  had 
not  yet  appeared  did  not  disappoint  him  so  much  as  had 

116 


THE   INNER   LAW 

been  the  case  the  month  previous,  and  the  poems  by 
other  authors  seemed  flat  and  purposeless.  Something 
was  wrong  with  him.  Was  he  actually  losing  all  vital 
interest  in  his  art? 

A  horrible  fear  attacked  him.  He  remembered  having 
read  that  some  great  authority  had  said  that  no  writer 
could  produce  good,  lasting,  uplifting  work  who  was  him 
self  immoral.  He  tried  to  laugh  at  the  idea  and  recalled 
name  after  name,  especially  among  the  French,  English, 
and  German  poets  whose  private  lives  contradicted  the 
statement,  but  still  the  idea  clung  to  him.  Perhaps  there 
were  different  spiritual  laws  for  different  men  and  differ 
ent  countries.  This  must  be  true,  or  he  would  not  be  so 
depressed  over  an  act  that  many  other  poets  would  scarce 
ly  think  about  a  moment.  Yes,  it  was  because  he  was 
an  American,  but  he  would  not  remain  in  America.  He 
would  live  where  men  were  free,  and  he  would  be  free. 
He  was  a  genius,  and  genius  made  its  own  laws. 

He  went  to  bed  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  the  night  was 
warm  and  he  tossed  about  restlessly.  Suddenly  the  mem 
ory  of  his  father's  distraught  face,  as  he  looked  at  him 
through  the  iron  lattice  of  the  elevator  at  the  asylum, 
returned  to  him.  A  lump  of  emotion  pained  his  throat. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes  and  fell  upon  his  pillow.  He 
loved  that  man.  It  was  queer,  but  he  loved  his  father 
in  his  infantile  helplessness  more  than  he  had  ever  loved 
any  one  else  on  earth.  Perhaps  it  was  because  the  old 
man  had  believed  in  him  so  thoroughly  and  trusted  him 
even  in  the  mental  darkness  that  was  on  him. 

After  hours  of  such  musings  as  these  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  next  morning  he  had  his  breakfast  in  his  room, 
telling  himself  that  it  was  the  French  custom  and 
a  delightful,  luxurious  one,  owing  to  its  privacy  and  to 
the  fact  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  go  through  the  ordeal 
of  dressing  after  one  had  drunk  one's  coffee,  smoked,  and 
read  the  papers. 

He  ordered  a  carriage,  and  it  was  at  the  entrance  when 
he  went  down  at  ten  o'clock.  The  drive  was  an  attrac 
tive  one,  as  he  had  found  before,  but  its  object  was  un 
pleasant  to  the  point  of  gruesomeness.  His  sensitive, 
high-strung  nature  shrank  from  further  contact  with  the 
man  who  was  now  more  dead  to  him  than  alive.  Would 
that  senile  mind,  so  facile  in  its  flights,  suspect  the  guilty 
thoughts  which  were  running  rife  through  his  brain? 
Would  the  once  shrewd  reader  of  men's  motives  see 
through  the  mask  of  the  son  he  had  loved  and  trusted? 

He  had  been  seated  only  a  few  minutes  in  the  parlor 
of  the  asylum  when  Dr.  Hamilton  came  in  and  extended 
his  hand  perfunctorily. 

"I'm  glad  you  came  this  morning,"  he  began,  a  thought 
ful  frown  settling  on  his  face.  "I  like  to  be  in  close  asso 
ciation  with  the  relatives  of  my  patients,  especially  in 
critical  cases,  and  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  report  that  your 
father  is  still  not  doing  so  well  as  I  expected.  He  passed 
a  very  rough  night,  and  gave  the  attendants  consider 
able  trouble.  He  has  surprising  physical  strength  when 
wrought  up,  and  you  may  find  that  his  face  and  hands 
are  bruised  a  little;  but  it  is  due  to  his  stout  resistance. 

118 


THE   INNER   LAW 

You  can  well  see,  I  presume,  that  absolute  control  of  such 
patients  is  necessary?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Carter  answered.  "I  suppose  there 
is  no  other  way.  Am  I  to  see  him  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  I  have  already  prepared  him  as  well  as  I  could 
for  your  visit.  In  a  dim  way  he  is  expecting  you,  though 
he  seems  to  wonder  why  you  and  he  are  not  together  all 
the  time.  When  you  meet  him  I'd  advise  you  to  humor 
him  as  much  as  possible." 

"Is  he  in  his — his  bedroom?"  Carter  inquired. 

"Not  at  present.  There  is  a  large  parlor  on  that  floor 
which  is  used  by  some  of  the  patients,  and  he  is  there  now, 
carefully  watched  by  two  attendants.  We  may  go  up 
now,  if  you  wish." 

Dr.  Hamilton  led  him  to  the  elevator.  They  ascended 
to  the  third  floor  and  got  out.  At  the  end  of  a  long,  bare 
corridor,  on  the  plain  white  walls  of  which  hung  no  orna 
ments  or  pictures,  was  a  closed  door.  Reaching  it,  the 
doctor  rapped  sharply  and  an  attendant  opened  it  from 
the  inside. 

The  floor  had  no  carpet.  There  was  a  massive  oaken 
table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  and  scattered  here  and 
there  were  heavy  straight-backed  chairs  of  the  same 
material.  A  babble  of  voices  burst  forth  as  the  door 
opened.  There  were  nine  or  ten  men  of  various  ages 
standing  about,  and  most  of  them  were  talking  and 
gesticulating  wildly.  One  man  was  striding  back  and 
forth,  singing  a  religious  song,  clapping  his  hands  and 
shouting:  "Praise  the  Lord!  Praise  the  Redeemer,  the 
Saviour  of  damned  souls!"  Another  stood  in  a  corner 
of  the  room  making  a  disjointed  political  speech.  Another 
was  laughing  hilariously  and  shedding  tears  at  the  same 
time. 

Seated  at  a  window,  Carter  saw  the  drooping  form  of 
his  father.  Gilbert  seemed  to  be  almost  asleep.  The 
doctor  went  to  him  and  touched  his  shoulder  lightly. 

119 


THE   INNER   LAW 

Gilbert  looked  up  quickly,  sprang  to  his  feet,  backed 
against  the  wall,  began  to  shake  his  fist  in  the  doctor's 
face  and  stammer  out  a  flow  of  unintelligible  words. 

"  I've  brought  your  son  to  see  you.  Now  be  quiet,"  Dr. 
Hamilton  said,  firmly. 

Herewith  Carter  stepped  forward  and  met  his  father's 
furious  glare.  Gilbert's  brow  was  bruised  and  swollen, 
his  lower  lip  gashed  and  bleeding,  a  scrap  of  sticking- 
plaster  hanging  loosely  from  the  wound. 

"W-w-where've  y-y-you  been?"  Gilbert  demanded. 
"Where  were  you  when  th-th-these  th-thugs  held  me 
down  and  tied  me  to  the  bed?" 

"I  had  to  see  Farnham,"  the  son  returned,  inventing 
the  best  excuse  available. 

"Farnham?  Then  you — you  saw  him,  did  you? 
What  d-d-did— did  he  say?" 

"The  road  is  all  right,  father.  He  will  be  here  to  see 
you  soon."  Carter  had  to  raise  his  voice  to  be  heard 
above  the  noise  on  all  sides. 

"I— I  don't  believe  it,"  Gilbert  fumed.  "They  are  all 
tricking  me — they  are  fooling  you,  too.  Why  d-d-don't 
they  let  me  out  of  here?" 

"You  are  not  exactly  well,  father,"  Carter  said,  look 
ing  at  the  doctor.  "You  do  not  realize  it,  but  you  are 
not  well,  and  must  stay  here  under  the  doctor's  care 
till—" 

"Me  sick?  Who,  me?  It's  a  dirty  lil-lil-lie!  Henry 
and  your  sister  are  at  the  bottom  of  it !  They  are  trying 
to  rob  us,  I  tell  you.  They  may  rope  Farnham  in,  too. 
They  w-w-will  do  anything  to  get  my  money.  Farn- 
ham's  no  saint,  either.  Look  how  he  acts  with  the  wives 
of  other  men?  You — you  watch  'im." 

A  drowsy  look  was  stealing  over  the  old  man's  face. 
He  stared  about  him  aimlessly  for  a  moment,  then  sank 
limply  into  his  chair,  dropped  his  head,  closed  his  eyes, 
and  began  to  breathe  loudly. 

120 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"Come  away  now,"  Dr.  Hamilton  whispered,  and,  un 
noticed  by  Gilbert,  they  left  the  room. 

"You  may  think  it  is  not  good  to  have  him  with  the 
others,"  the  doctor  remarked,  when  they  were  down 
stairs;  "but  it  is  better  for  him.  The  sight  of  you  roused 
him  considerably  just  now,  but  just  before  you  came  he 
was  much  quieter — in  fact,  he  was  laughing  with  some  of 
the  others.  If  you  remain  in  Cincinnati  you  might  come 
out  every  other  day,  or  say  twice  a  week.  Of  course  you 
could  return  to  Atlanta  and  I  could  telegraph  you;  but 
I  am  bound  to  inform  you  that  your  father  might  die  at 
any  moment,  and  suddenly.  He  might  linger  for  months, 
but  it  is  not  likely.  He  doesn't  take  proper  nourishment. 
We  can't  well  force  it  on  him;  it  would  be  more  cruel  than 
kind  in  a  case  where  death  is  only  a  question  of  time." 

"I  shall  remain  close  at  hand,"  Carter  said.  "Tele 
phone  me  if  there  is  any  change  and  I'll  drive  out  at  once." 

"Very  well,"  Dr.  Hamilton  answered.  "I  want  to 
please  my  patrons,  and  if  there  is  anything  I  can  possibly 
do  please  don't  hesitate  to  call  on  me.  I'm  glad  to  see 
that  you  yourself  are  looking  better  already.  You  are 
still  worrying,  I  think,  but  you  must  throw  it  off." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ON  the  whole,  the  weeks  which  followed  were  passed 
agreeably  enough  by  the  young  poet.  He  readily 
adapted  himself  to  the  routine  of  his  slight  daily  avoca 
tions.  Almost  every  morning  he  wrote  a  line  to  Milicent. 
He  either  telephoned  to  the  asylum  or  drove  out  to  see 
how  his  father  was  getting  along.  After  the  first  week 
his  visits  became  less  often,  for  he  saw  that  they  did  his 
father  no  good  and  only  served  to  depress  himself.  The 
luxury  of  living  in  a  fine  hotel  became  more  and  more 
agreeable.  He  found  that  there  was  a  considerable  Ger 
man  population  in  the  city,  and  both  as  a  pastime  and  as 
a  preparation  for  his  life  in  Europe  he,  already  a  master 
of  French,  took  up  the  study  of  conversational  German. 
He  spent  many  of  his  evenings  in  the  beer-halls  and 
beer-gardens,  where  he  confined  himself  to  that  tongue. 
He  was  liberal  with  his  funds,  and  made  congenial  ac 
quaintances  among  dancers,  singers,  and  actresses  of  the 
vaudeville  class.  He  bought  many  books  and  read  a 
good  deal,  chiefly  the  best  works  of  poets  and  philosophers. 
There  was  one  disagreeable  thought  which  constantly 
haunted  him,  and  that  was  that  he  was  producing  nothing 
himself  in  the  way  of  poetry.  Even  the  scheme  for  his 
great  epic  had  become  vague  and  shadowy.  Something 
was  wrong,  but  he  could  not  tell  what  it  was.  He  was 
too  young  to  understand  that  his  failure  to  write  was  due 
to  his  absorption  in  sensual  pleasures  at  the  expense  of 
his  art.  He  kept  telling  himself  that  the  inspiration 
would  come  again  in  due  time.  It  would  come  when  this 
worry  over  his  father  was  past,  when  he  was  wholly  his 

122 


THE   INNER   LAW 

own  master  and  could  visit  the  far-off  places  his  fancy 
had  so  warmly  painted  with  the  brush  of  ideality.  It 
would  come  when  his  debt  to  Lydia  was  paid  in  some 
form  or  other. 

He  had  been  to  a  dinner  party  one  evening  with  some  of 
his  new  friends,  and  returned  to  his  hotel,  when  to  his  great 
surprise  he  found  his  Uncle  Thomas  waiting  for  him  in  the 
foyer  of  the  hotel.  There  was  something  reluctant,  it 
seemed,  in  the  way  the  old  man  offered  his  hand.  There 
was  an  evasive  shifting  of  the  latter's  gentle  eyes,  as  they 
walked  into  the  smoking-room  and  sat  down. 

"I  had  no  idea  you  were  coming,"  Carter  said.  "Milly 
didn't  write  me  you  intended  to  do  so." 

"I  decided  rather  suddenly,"  Thomas  answered,  slowly, 
as  if  carefully  weighing  his  words,  his  unreadable  eyes 
still  averted.  "Your  sister  has  been  writing  me  every 
day  or  so,  giving  me  your  reports.  She  did  not  happen 
to  mention  where  you  were  living,  and  so — so  I  could  not 
write  to  you  myself." 

"I  see,"  the  nephew  said.  He  was  strangely  embar 
rassed,  and  why  he  could  not  have  explained.  "I  pre 
sume  you  will  want  to  see  him  to-morrow?" 

"I've  already  seen  him." 

"Oh,  you  have!" 

"Yes.  When  I  got  here  at  noon  to-day  I  thought  you 
were  staying  at  the  sanitarium,  and  so  I  went  there  direct 
from  the  train.  Dr.  Hamilton  gave  me  this  address,  and 
so  I  came  here  and  took  a  room  for  the  night." 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  him?"  Carter  asked,  won 
dering  what  the  almost  palpable  thing  was  which  seemed 
to  hang  between  him  and  his  uncle. 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  still  avoiding  his 
nephew's  groping  stare.  "It  is  as  bad  as  it  could  be," 
was  the  reply.  "He  is  dying  rapidly.  He  didn't  even 
recognize  me.  I  suppose  that  it  is  well  that  I  saw  him 
again,  but  I  did  not  come  to  see  him,  really." 

123 


THE   INNER   LAW 

Thomas  paused,  his  eyes  on  the  Turkish  rug  at  his  feet. 
It  was  as  if  he  wanted  to  go  further,  but  was  unable  to 
formulate  the  requisite  words  with  which  to  express 
himself. 

"You  did  not  come  to  see  him?"  Carter  said,  perplexed. 
"Then  you  came  on  business  of  your  own?" 

"I  came  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about 
something  of  a — a  rather  delicate  nature,  but  I  have  de 
cided  to  wait  till  it  is  all  over  here  and  you  return  home. 
Dr.  Hamilton  says  your  father  is  sinking  very  rapidly.  He 
was  walking  about  this  morning  and  fell  down  suddenly. 
They  put  him  to  bed,  and  he  may  not  leave  it  again." 

"Yes,  he  can't  last  long  now,"  Carter  said,  conscious 
that  the  sigh  he  gave  was  somewhat  artificial.  "It  is 
only  a  question  of  a  few  days.  Was  it  any  matter  per 
taining — to  his  estate  that  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me 
about?" 

"No,  it  wasn't  that."  Thomas  flashed  a  sudden 
glance  at  his  nephew  and  then  looked  down.  "He  was 
good  enough,  as  you  may  know,  to  lend  me  some  money 
a  year  ago,  but  I  paid  off  the  debt  in  the  spring." 

"And  you  do  not  feel  inclined  to — to  tell  me  about  it — 
I  mean  about  the  matter  that  you  thought  of  mentioning?" 

"No,  not  now,"  Thomas  said,  firmly,  and  with  what 
seemed  to  be  a  little  shudder.  "Your  place  is  here  now,  at 
such  a  critical  time,  and — and  everything  else  must  wait. 
But  when  you  get  back  to  Atlanta  you  will  come  right 
out — to  see  me,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  In  fact,  I  want  very  much  to  come 
again,  and — " 

"Have  I  your  faithful  promise  that  you  will  do  so  with 
out  delay  after  it  is  all  over?" 

"Yes,  certainly.  In  fact,  I  shall  need  the  rest  and 
quiet  of  the  mountains  after  all  this  worry  and  strain  on 
my  nerves.  Of  course,  I've  tried  to  divert  my  thoughts 
as  much  as  possible." 

124 


THE    INNER   LAW 

A  frown  settled  on  the  old  man's  face.  To  his  nephew's 
surprise,  he  got  up  suddenly  and  extended  his  hand.  On 
grasping  it  Carter  felt  it  quivering. 

"I  am  very  tired  from  my  trip,  and  shall  turn  in," 
Thomas  said  in  a  low  voice,  "and  as  I  leave  on  a  very 
early  train — six  o'clock — I'll  say  good-by  now." 

"Good-by,"  Carter  answered,  and  at  the  desk  in  the 
office,  where  his  uncle  was  asking  for  the  key  to  his  room, 
they  separated. 

The  young  man  bought  a  cigar  at  the  news-stand  and 
went  back  into  the  smoking-room.  He  was  haunted  by 
a  subconscious  hint  of  something  he  could  not  grasp — 
something  which  his  uncle's  personality  seemed  to  give 
forth  and  yet  hold  in  check. 

There  was  some  sad  mystery  about  Thomas  Crofton, 
and  this  hurried  visit  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Well, 
he  would  understand  it  later.  He  was  sure  the  old  sufferer 
was  going  to  confide  in  him.  Yes,  that  was  it.  Before 
long  he  would  know  the  cause,  perhaps,  of  his  uncle's 
moody  habits  and  lonely  way  of  living. 

Meanwhile  he  had  begun  to  smoke.  His  promise  to 
his  uncle  to  visit  him  now  brought  up  visions  of  delight. 
He  would  see  Lydia  every  day  and  tell  her  how  beautiful 
she  was,  and  how  he  had  missed  her.  He  would  tell  her 
of  his  plans — their  plans.  She  no  doubt  understood  by 
this  time  why  he  had  left  her  so  abruptly,  and  would  for 
give  him.  He  was  quite  a  man  of  the  world  now.  He 
was  no  longer  a  callow,  inexperienced  boy.  Those  weeks 
of  bohemian  freedom  spent  in  Cincinnati  had  taught  him 
that  the  habits  of  a  man  of  fortune  and  genius  could 
never  fit  the  mold  adapted  to  the  humdrum  and  the 
ordinary.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  what  a  simpleton 
he  must  have  appeared  to  the  experienced  Farnham. 
Well,  he  would  lose  no  time  in  showing  his  friend  that 
his  boyhood  was  over  and  that  he  was  as  wise  in  the  way 
of  the  world  as  Farnham  or  any  of  his  class. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ONE  morning,  a  few  days  later,  he  waked  earlier  than 
usual.  He  had  been  out  till  late  the  night  before, 
his  head  was  aching,  and  he  felt  unaccountably  depressed. 
As  he  dressed  and  saw  his  heavy  eyes  and  haggard  face 
in  his  mirror  the  thought  came  to  him  that  perhaps  some 
thing  quite  serious  had  happened  to  his  father,  and  that 
his  feelings  were  due  to  a  premonition  of  it.  He  tried 
to  banish  the  impression  as  he  ate  his  breakfast  in  the 
cafe*,  but  it  clung  to  him  so  persistently  that  it  took  away 
his  appetite.  He  had  not  seen  his  father  for  several 
days,  and  his  conscience  sharply  accused  him  of  'filial 
neglect.  He  had  the  waiter  order  a  carriage  for  him  so 
that  he  might  take  it  immediately  after  breakfast,  for 
he  was  determined  now  to  delay  no  longer  in  going  to  the 
asylum. 

He  had  reached  the  door  when  a  porter  came  to  him 
hurriedly. 

"You  are  wanted  on  the  'phone,"  the  man  said. 

"The  'phone!"  Carter  repeated,  his  heart  sinking  under 
a  sudden  conviction  that  he  was  to  hear  unpleasant 
news. 

The  man  led  him  to  a  booth  and  he  entered,  closed  the 
glass  door,  and  took  up  the  receiver. 

"Hello!"  he  said. 

"Hello!"  came  back  on  the  wire.  "I'm  waiting  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Carter  Crofton.  Why  can't  I  get  him?" 

"I  am  Mr.  Crofton,"  Carter  answered,  "Who  is 
that?" 

126 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"  Oh,  I  see !  I  am  Dr.  Hamilton,  Mr.  Crofton.  I  don't 
want  to  excite  you  unduly,  but  you'd  better  come  out  at 
once.  Your  father  is  not  so  well." 

"I  was  just  starting  out."  Carter  was  conscious  of 
the  need  of  some  explanation.  "I  would  have  been  out 
before  this,  but  was  engaged  on  some  work  and  special 
reading  I  was  doing;  besides,  I  thought  that  I  could 
really  do  no  good  out  there." 

The  anticipated  agreement  to  this  was  oddly  lacking. 
There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  Dr.  Hamilton  answered 
in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  the  young  man  to  be  abrupt, 
hurried,  if  not  contemptuous. 

"You'd  better  drive  fast,  I  think;  they  have  sent  for 
me  again,  and  you  may  not  really  be  in  time." 

The  close  air  of  the  booth  was  suffocating.  A  dizzy 
sensation  came  over  him.  He  hung  up  the  receiver, 
pushed  the  door  open,  breathed  in  the  fresh  air,  and  has 
tened  out  to  the  carriage.  Not  see  him  alive — not  see 
Gilbert  Crofton  alive!  Could  it  be  possible  that  death, 
actual  death,  had  come  to  that  particular  man?  He 
sprang  into  the  carriage,  ordered  the  driver  to  make  all 
possible  speed,  and  as  he  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes 
he  became  the  prey  of  a  thousand  poignant  thoughts  and 
visions  of  the  past.  He  recalled  the  old  man's  gentleness 
and  kindness  to  him  all  through  his  childhood,  and  his 
constant  revelations  of  confidence  in  him.  He  remem 
bered  how  proud  Gilbert  had  been  of  his  poetic  talent 
and  his  college  degree,  and  the  many  times  that  the  old 
man  had  seemed  to  check  an  impulsive  affection  that 
he  was  too  proud  to  show.  Then  there  was  that  special 
gift  of  the  railroad  interest  over  the  inheritance  of  the 
other  two  heirs.  All  that  was  from  a  man  who,  perhaps 
in  great  pain  and  even  lucidness  of  mind,  was  dying  while 
the  ungrateful  recipient  was  enjoying  himself  in  the  most 
sensual  manner  with  degraded  associates. 

At  the  door  of  the  asylum  he  met  Dr.  Hamilton.  "I 

127 


THE    INNER   LAW 

am  sorry  to  say  that  you  are  too  late,"  he  said,  as  he  led 
Carter  into  the  parlor. 

"Too  late?"  Carter  felt  the  words  stir  his  brain,  but 
they  did  not  reach  his  lips. 

"He  began  to  sink  very  rapidly  about  eight  o'clock  this 
morning,"  the  doctor  continued.  "I  was  needed  at  his 
bedside,  and  so  I  could  not  'phone  as  quickly  as  I  wished. 
In  such  cases  I  always  like  to  have  some  representative 
of  the  relatives  of  my  patients  present  at  the  end,  but, 
you  see,  owing  to  your  staying  in  town,  it  was  not  possible 
in  this  case.  They  have  laid  out  the  body  in  his  room, 
and  you  may  see  it  now  if  you  wish." 

"I  think  I'll  go  up,"  Carter  said,  his  voice  having  a 
far-off  and  unfamiliar  sound  even  to  his  own  ears.  There 
seemed  to  be  an  accusing  coldness  in  the  doctor's  manner. 
It  struck  Carter  as  being  so,  who  was  not  familiar  enough 
with  the  ways  of  such  establishments  to  know  that  Dr. 
Hamilton  would  have  been  less  than  human  if  he  had 
not  felt  the  financial  loss  incurred  by  the  too-early  death 
of  his  wealthiest  patient. 

"The  attendant  will  show  you  up,"  Hamilton  said. 
"I  am  busy  right  now,  but  shall  see  you  before  you 
leave." 

The  attendant  opened  the  door  of  the  room  Gilbert 
had  occupied,  and  when  Carter  had  entered  it  he  with 
drew,  softly  closing  the  door  behind  him.  The  bed  had 
been  removed,  and  on  some  smooth  boards  resting  on 
undertaker's  stools,  beneath  a  sheet,  lay  the  wasted  form 
of  the  dead  man. 

The  morning  sunlight  streamed  against  the  yellow  shade 
of  the  window,  the  shadows  of  the  prison-like  iron  bars 
showing  through  in  black  squares.  The  face  was  covered 
with  a  thin  white  cloth  which  gave  forth  the  sickening 
odor  of  some  disinfectant,  and  for  a  moment  Carter  stood 
almost  without  the  courage  to  lift  it.  His  mother's  had 
been  the  only  dead  face  he  had  ever  seen.  He  had  always 

128 


THE    INNER   LAW 

avoided  such  sights,  telling  himself  that  they  were  not 
good  for  his  temperament;  but  something  told  him  that 
it  was  his  sacred  duty  now  to  look  at  the  face  beneath 
the  cloth.  He  took  a  step  or  two  back  and  forth,  but  the 
sound  of  his  shoes  on  the  bare  floor  grated  on  his  highly 
wrought  nerves,  and  he  paused  at  the  head  of  the  corpse. 
His  fingers  seemed  lifeless  prongs  in  stiff  motion  as  they 
pinched  up  the  cloth  at  the  edges  and  turned  it  back. 
There  it  lay  in  the  yellow  light  —  that  ashen  face,  so 
like  and  yet  unlike  what  it  once  had  been.  The  lips  were 
set,  as  if  they  had  been  pressed  tightly  together  in  the 
last  desperate  throe  of  conscious  existence.  The  lids  of 
the  eyes  were  closed,  the  balls  all  but  visible  through  the 
thin  skin.  The  cheek-bones  seemed  ready  to  push  through 
the  decaying  flesh  that  covered  them.  The  whole  object 
was  but  a  skeleton  clothed  in  parchment. 

Almost  with  a  sob  of  terror  and  grief  combined  Carter 
replaced  the  cloth  and  stepped  back.  There  was  a 
chair  near  the  window,  and  he  sank  into  it.  He  felt  that 
he  ought  to  cry,  ought  to  shed  tears,  and  he  actually  tried 
to  do  so.  He  heard  himself  whimpering  and  moaning, 
and,  in  accordance  with  his  introspective  habit,  wondered 
if  any  actual  sincerity  lay  beneath  the  uncouth  effort. 
Had  he  not  looked  for  his  father's  death  as  something 
to  be  desired  for  the  sake  of  the  chief  sufferer  and  all 
others  concerned?  Then  why  should  he  be  grieved? 
Was  it  not  best  to  have  the  prolonged  agony  over?  It 
seemed  so,  and  yet  there  was  that  still  thing  beneath  the 
cloth.  It  had  something  to  say,  and  it  was  saying  it  as 
mutely  as  a  signal-flag  waved  out  of  the  infinite  by  the 
very  hand  of  God.  It  was  saying: 

"As  he  lies  there  so  you  must  lie.  What  do  you  think 
about  it?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it ?  The  man 
that  occupied  that  wormy  husk  led  a  self-absorbed  life 
and  finally  reached  this  goal.  And  you  yourself  were 
so  eager  to  plunge  into  the  mire  of  sensuality  that  you 

9  129 


THE   INNER   LAW 

could  not  spare  a  moment  from  your  revelries  to  hold  his 
hand  while  the  last  throb  of  life  flickered  in  it.  You — 
what  are  you,  anyway?  Poet?  Are  you  a  poet?  Poets 
have  souls.  You  have  none." 

He  was  stifling.  He  seemed  to  be  breathing  into  his 
lungs  the  very  atoms  of  his  father's  body  which,  released 
by  decay,  were  floating  like  sentient  insects  in  the  air. 
He  got  up  and  went  to  the  door;  but  with  his  hand  on 
the  latch  he  paused.  He  remembered  hearing  an  old 
woman  in  the  mountains  say,  superstitiously,  that  it  was 
well  to  touch  the  face  of  the  dead — that  such  an  act  helped 
the  living  bear  the  loss  of  the  departed.  Reluctantly  he 
went  back.  Slowly  he  raised  the  cloth,  finding  now  that 
he  was  not  so  horrified  as  before.  Putting  his  hand 
against  the  cheek,  cleanly  shaven  since  death,  he  stroked 
it.  Then  an  impulse  flowed  through  him  that  he  could 
not  resist;  he  bent  and  tenderly  kissed  the  cold,  clammy 
brow. 

"Oh,  father,  forgive  me!"  he  cried;  and  then  his  tears 
flowed  freely.  Through  them  he  gazed  upon  the  pale 
mask.  Strange,  but  the  whole  contour  now  seemed  lined 
in  transcendental  peacefulness.  Sobbing  deep  in  his 
breast,  Carter  kissed  the  brow  again.  He  put  his  hand 
down  under  the  sheet  and  pressed  the  fingers  of  the  stiff 
hands  crossed  like  slabs  of  ice  upon  the  cold  chest.  Then 
he  turned  from  the  room  and  descended  the  stairs. 

He  was  on  the  lawn,  walking  to  and  fro  on  the 
greensward,  still  wondering  over  his  complex  emotions 
and  trying  to  analyze  them,  when  Dr.  Hamilton  ap 
proached. 

"I  presume  you  will  want  to  take  the  remains  to  At 
lanta?"  he  said,  tentatively. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Carter  answered,  "and  as  early  as 
possible." 

"A  reliable  undertaker  has  just  come  from  the  city. 
He  is  waiting,  and  if  you  care  to  consult  him — " 

130 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"I'd  be  glad  to  leave  it  all  to  him  and  you,"  Carter 
interrupted.  "I  want  no  expense  spared." 

"Very  well,"  the  doctor  returned.  "You  can  trust 
him  thoroughly.  I  have  known  him  several  years.  You 
may  leave  all  arrangements  in  his  hands.  If  you  would 
like  to  accompany  the  remains  the  body  can  go  on  the 
same  train  you  take.  The  railways  require  that  a  regular 
first-class  ticket  be  bought  for  a  corpse,  and  they  attend 
to  everything  en  route.  The  casket  would  have  to  be 
transferred  only  once  between  here  and  Atlanta,  and 
that  is  at  Chattanooga.  The  best  train  leaves  here  at 
ten  o'clock  to-night,  and  you  can  get  sleeper  accommo 
dations  on  it.  The  undertaker  will  arrange  that,  too,  so 
you  may  do  as  you  like  till  leaving-time  to-night." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Carter,  vaguely  relieved.  "Then  I'll 
take  that  train,  and  shall  expect  everything  to  be  done  as 
you  say." 

He  drove  back  to  the  city.  He  first  sent  a  telegram 
to  his  sister,  then  another  to  his  uncle,  informing  them  of 
the  death  and  the  hour  of  his  arrival  in  Atlanta.  After 
that  he  was  free  to  pass  the  intervening  time  as  he  liked, 
and  it  was  just  noon.  He  sat  down  in  the  smoking-room 
of  his  hotel  with  a  newspaper  and  a  cigar,  but  his  former 
sense  of  ease  and  content  at  such  moments  was  gone. 
The  very  atmosphere  about  him  seemed  charged  with 
some  element,  psychic  or  otherwise,  which  was  new  and 
indescribable.  Dead?  How  could  his  own  father — 
Gilbert  Crofton,  that  man  of  force,  energy,  and  hope — 
be  actually  gone  for  ever?  He  told  himself  that  it  was 
unrealizable,  and  yet  it  was  true. 

He  remembered  that  he  had  planned  to  go  to  a  certain 
vaudeville  performance  that  afternoon  to  see  a  French 
danseuse,  whom  he  had  met  at  a  dinner  in  a  bachelor's 
rooms,  in  a  startlingly  original  act ;  in  fact,  he  had  a  ticket 
for  a  box  seat  in  his  pocket;  but  now,  of  course,  he  would 
not  go.  But  why  should  he  allow  what  had  happened  to 


THE   INNER   LAW 

interfere?  Would  it  not  be  sensible  in  him  to  resort  to 
any  means  to  banish  the  terrible  mood  that  was  on  him? 
He  thought  so,  and  yet  he  could  not  fully  decide  to  go. 

He  went  to  the  theater  as  the  hour  approached.  He 
saw  the  people  going  in  and  reached  the  door  himself, 
and  then  turned  slowly  and  aimlessly  back  to  his  hotel. 
Then  the  thought  came  to  him  that  there  was  a  book 
he  wanted  to  consult  in  the  public  library,  and  he  di 
rected  his  steps  thither,  only  to  find  at  the  door  of  the 
building  that  he  was  in  no  mood  for  reading.  Thereupon 
he  began  to  stroll  about  the  city,  telling  himself  that  the 
exercise  would  fatigue  him,  cause  him  to  sleep  on  the 
Pullman,  and  thus  provide,  at  least,  temporary  oblivion. 

Herewith  his  thoughts  took  him  swiftly  to  Atlanta. 
The  morning  papers  would  contain  lengthy  accounts  of 
the  death  of  the  city's  wealthiest  citizen.  Mention  would 
be  made  of  the  son  who  was  bringing  home  the  remains 
for  interment — the  brilliant  son  of  whom  the  State  was 
so  proud,  and  who  now  had  the  heartfelt  sympathy  of  the 
public  at  large  in  his  great  bereavement.  Then  there 
would  be  the  service  at  the  church.  He  saw  Milicent 
veiled  from  head  to  foot  in  black;  Henry,  if  the  man  could 
be  found  and  coached  into  his  duty,  would  be  there,  look 
ing  strangely  out  of  place;  also  Thomas  Crofton,  the  taci 
turn  brother  of  the  deceased,  and  himself,  upon  whom  all 
eyes  would  rest  in  sympathetic  admiration,  for  what  could 
be  more  interesting  than  the  grief  of  a  high-strung,  sensi 
tive  poet? 


CHAPTER  XX 

HE  was  at  the  train  a  few  minutes  before  leaving-time. 
He  was  unaccompanied  by  any  of  his  new  friends; 
he  had  not  informed  them  even  of  his  father's  illness,  so, 
of  course,  information  of  the  death  would  be  out  of  place. 
Besides,  he  doubted  that  he  would  ever  meet  any  of  them 
again,  for  he  was  sure  he  would  go  abroad  very  soon.  He 
was  about  to  step  into  the  sleeping-car  in  the  station  when 
he  was  accosted  by  a  stranger  wearing  a  silk  top-hat  and 
black  frock-coat.  The  man  bowed  servilely  and  intro 
duced  himself  as  the  undertaker  in  charge  of  the  remains. 
He  pointed  to  a  truck,  among  some  others  laden  with 
trunks,  which  held,  as  its  sole  burden,  a  long  unpainted  box. 

"They  are  going  to  put  it  in  the  baggage-car  now,"  he 
said.  "I  waited  for  you  to  come.  Some  like  to  see  them 
safely  put  on,  and  I  thought  I'd  give  you  the  chance  if 
you  got  here  soon  enough.  Those  are  my  men  there. 
They  know  their  business.  If  there  is  a  single  thing 
wrong  when  you  get  home  it  won't  be  my  fault.  Part  of 
the  road  is  rough  between  here  and  Atlanta,  and  he  might 
shake  about  some,  but — " 

"I  understand,"  Carter  interrupted,  as  the  man  led 
him  toward  the  box.  On  the  end  of  it  was  tacked  a 
shipper's  card  with  something  written  upon  it. 

"If  you  are  satisfied,  I'll  order  my  men  to  go  ahead," 
said  the  undertaker. 

"Yes,  go  ahead,"  was  the  reply;  and  Carter  stood  by 
and  saw  the  truck  rolled  up  to  the  car  door  and  the  box 
shoved  in.  Then  he  shook  hands  with  the  undertaker. 


THE    INNER   LAW 

thanked  him,  and  went  to  his  seat  in  the  Pullman.  The 
undertaker,  however,  soon  followed  him. 

"There  is  a  thing  I  intended  to  mention,  but  I  over 
looked  it,"  he  said,  his  hat  in  his  hand.  "A  transfer  of 
the  remains  must  be  made  in  Chattanooga.  You  may 
be  asleep  when  the  train  gets  there,  and  I  thought  that 
I'd  tell  you  if  you  don't  want  to  get  up  to  see  the  transfer 
made  that  you  needn't  do  so.  The  baggage-master  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  he  has  promised  me  that  he  will  pay 
special  attention  to  the  transfer." 

"I'll  be  up,"  Carter  said,  coldly.  "I'll  have  the  porter 
call  me." 

"Well,  just  as  you  wish,"  the  man  said,  bowing  again 
and  moving  away. 

A  moment  later  the  train  started.  Three  men  seated 
near  him  had  taken  out  a  deck  of  cards,  ready  to  begin  a 
game  of  poker.  One  of  them,  who  looked  like  a  traveling 
salesman,  caught  his  eyes  and  smiled.  "Want  to  come 
in?"  he  asked. 

Carter  shook  his  head  mechanically  and  declined. 
"I'm  tired  and  am  going  to  bed  early,"  he  said. 

Shortly  afterward  his  berth  was  made  ready  and  he 
undressed  and  lay  down.  The  air  in  the  car  was  stuffy 
and  close,  and  his  brain  seemed  over-active.  The  con 
versation  on  all  sides,  the  rumble  of  the  wheels,  disturbed 
him.  There  were  so  many  things  to  think  about.  He 
was  now  a  man  of  wealth  and  importance  and  perfectly 
free  to  live  as  he  liked.  Still  he  was  depressed.  He  told 
himself  that  it  was  owing  to  his  being  within  only  a  few 
car-lengths  of  the  actual  corpse  of  his  father,  whom  he 
had  loved  so  tenderly.  Well,  the  ordeal  would  be  over 
after  another  day  and  life  would  then  go  on  as  it  should. 
The  great  epic  would  be  written;  even  the  sorrow  he  was 
now  experiencing  might  add  a  deeper  note  to  his  work. 
Presently  his  thoughts  became  jumbled  and  vague,  and 
he  slept. 


THE  .INNER   LAW 

He  was  dreaming.  He  seemed  to  be  in  London.  His 
poems  had  crossed  the  ocean  and  were  being  read  all  over 
Europe.  He  was  in  a  drawing-room  filled  with  person 
ages  of  rank,  title,  and  genius.  He  was  being  lionized,  a 
veteran  English  poet  was  congratulating  him.  Some 
one  led  out  to  dinner.  A  stately  lady  bedecked  with  jewels 
and  in  the  richest  costume  was  on  his  arm.  Suddenly 
into  the  whole  brilliant  scene  came  a  metallic  grinding 
sound.  The  faces  and  forms  in  the  dream  were  blurred. 
The  lady  on  his  arm  was  acting  queerly.  He  was  study 
ing  her  twisting  features  in  slow  amazement,  and  then 
he  saw  that  she  was  Lydia. 

"You  cannot  get  away  from  me,"  she  said,  "for  I  am 
on  your  soul." 

He  waked  with  a  start.  Some  one  was  pulling  at  his 
arm.  It  was  the  negro  porter. 

"You  said  you  wanted  to  be  up  at  Chattanooga,"  the 
man  reminded  him.  "We'll  be  there  in  fifteen  minutes." 

The  berth  curtains  closed.  Raising  the  shade  of  his 
window,  he  saw  that  dawn  was  breaking,  barely  breaking, 
in  the  dun  eastern  skies.  He  shuddered.  He  had  seemed 
to  be  far  off  in  some  sort  of  transcendental  freedom,  and 
now  he  was  occupied  with  the  most  gruesome  of  duties 
as  the  sole  guardian  of  the  body  of  the  man  from  whose 
loins  he  had  sprung.  He  shivered  from  the  chill  of  early 
morning  and  dressed  himself,  feeling  as  lonely  there  among 
the  closed  curtains  of  strange  sleepers  as  a  disembodied 
soul  seeking  light  in  a  new  and  darkened  existence. 

When  the  train  had  stopped  he  went  out  to  the  plat 
form.  The  gray  light  of  dawn  lay  like  a  fog  over  every 
thing.  The  lanterns  of  the  trainmen  shone  and  waved 
here  and  there.  Few  persons  were  in  sight.  He  walked 
ahead  to  the  baggage-car,  to  the  door  of  which  a  truck 
was  being  trundled.  It  was  for  trunks,  and  he  had  to 
wait  for  another  which  was  to  do  the  work  he  was  to 
inspect.  The  loaded  truck  rolled  away  and  another  took 

135 


THE   INNER   LAW 

its  place.  Then  the  unpainted  box  was  slid  out  upon 
the  truck,  where  it  rested  till  a  switch-engine  brought 
into  place  the  car  which  was  to  take  the  remains  on  to 
Atlanta. 

He  had  seen  the  work  properly  done,  and  was  starting 
back  to  the  Pullman  when  a  man  approached  him  from 
behind  and  touched  his  arm.  It  was  Farnham. 

" Hello,  old  chap!"  he  said,  softly,  as  he  took  his  friend's 
hand  and  pressed  it  sympathetically.  "Surprised  to  see 
me,  I  guess.  I  ran  up  to  meet  you — spent  the  night  here 
at  the  hotel,  and  had  them  call  me.  I'm  going  back  on 
your  train." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,  Charley.  I  wasn't  expecting 
any  one,  and  I  am  more  than  glad  to  see  you." 

The  locomotive's  bell  was  ringing.  The  conductor 
was  calling  out,  "All  aboard!"  and  the  two  friends  has 
tened  toward  the  Pullman. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back  to  bed?"  Farnham  asked,  as 
they  stood  in  the  smoking-room. 

"No;  I  couldn't  sleep,"  Carter  said.  "What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"Sit  up  and  chat  with  you  here  till  the  dining-car  opens 
at  eight  o'clock;  then  we'll  have  breakfast  together." 

"Very  well;  that  will  be  nice,"  Carter  said,  gratefully. 
"I'm  glad  you  came  up.  How  are  they  all  at  home?" 

"Very  well,  I  think.  Your  sister  was  quite  shocked 
by  your  telegram.  I  called  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  news, 
but  could  not  see  her.  I  think  she  is  better  now.  Henry 
was  there  and  your  uncle  Tom.  Together  we  planned 
the  arrangements.  The  remains  are  to  be  taken  to  your 
house,  where  they  will  stay  till  to-morrow  morning,  when 
a  church  service  is  to  be  held.  The  afternoon  papers 
were  full  of  it,  and  I  look  for  big  accounts  in  the  papers 
this  morning.  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that 
your  father's  business  affairs  are  in  first-rate  order. 
Your  sister  was  worried  about  his  life-insurance  policies. 


THE    INNER   LAW 

but  I  found  that  all  the  premiums  were  paid  up.  She 
was  afraid,  too,  that  he  might  have  made  some  serious 
financial  mistake  when  his  mind  was  not  exactly  right, 
but  last  night  I  was  talking  with  McCorkle,  who  has 
his  papers  in  charge,  and  he  says  they  are  in  tip-top  shape, 
so  I  assured  her  that  there  was  nothing  to  worry  about. 
As  for  the  railroad,  that  is  in  better  condition  than  ever; 
and  think  of  it,  my  boy,  you  now  own  fully  one-third 
of  it." 

"I  am  sure  I  owe  that  to  you,"  Carter  said.  "It  was 
a  whim  my  father  had  to  give  it  to  me  because  you  and 
I  are  friends." 

"It  may  be  as  you  say,"  Farnham  admitted.  "Now 
let  us  talk  of  something  else.  The  old  have  to  die  to  make 
place  for  the  young,  and  goodness  knows  you  have  noth 
ing  to  complain  of.  Your  path  is  certainly  strewn  with 
roses  if  ever  a  man's  was." 


X, 


CHAPTER  XXI 

S  they  left  the  train  in  the  depot  in  Atlanta  they  saw 
Larkin,  whip  in  hand,  at  the  door  leading  to  the 
street. 

"Now  you  drive  straight  home,"  Farnham  said,  as 
he  parted  from  Carter.  "Ill  attend  to  everything  here. 
The  hearse  is  waiting.  Milicent  will  be  impatient  to 
see  you." 

"Thank  you,  Charley;   you  are  very  kind." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  alighted  at  home.  Milicent  met 
him  at  the  door  and  coldly  kissed  him.  She  was  dressed 
in  black.  Her  face  was  very  grave,  but  it  showed  no 
signs  of  tears. 

"Oh,  you  must  have  had  an  awful,  awful  time  up  there 
through  it  all!"  she  said.  "You  are  too  young  and  sensi 
tive  to  have  undertaken  it." 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said,  returning  her  kiss  and  going 
into  the  hall,  his  arm  about  her  waist.  Larkin  followed 
with  his  bag  and  bore  it  solemnly  up  the  stairs  to  his 
room. 

The  drawing-room  held  great  heaps  of  flowers  which 
had  been  sent  by  friends,  and  the  air  was  full  of  their 
blended  fragrance.  The  chairs  had  been  placed  close 
against  the  walls,  and  in  the  center  stood  the  undertaker's 
stools  ready  to  support  the  casket. 

"I  understand  uncle  and  Henry  are  here,"  Carter  re 
marked. 

"Yes.  Henry  is  in  his  room  as  restless  as  a  fish  out  of 
water.  I  am  ashamed  of  him.  It  looks  as  if  he  begrudges 

138 


THE    INNER   LAW 

even  this  one  day  to  us  in  our  trouble.  He  has  sunken 
very  low.  He  actually  had  the  audacity  to  try  to  bor 
row  some  of  my  money  just  now.  I  wouldn't  let  him  have 
it,  even  if  he  is  to  come  into  his  part  of  the  estate.  Do 
you  blame  me?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  said,  surprised  that  she  should 
make  so  sordid  a  remark  at  such  a  moment.  "Where  is 
uncle?" 

"He  is  out  on  the  back  porch.  He  seems  to  be  in  one 
of  his  gloomy  moods.  He  says  nothing,  and  only  walks 
up  and  down  with  his  hands  behind  him.  We  are  a 
strange  family,  brother — we  really  are.  I  realize  it  more 
and  more  every  day.  But  it  is  a  comfort  to  feel  that  we 
are  not  left  poor,  as  many  children  are.  Mr.  McCorkle 
says  father's  affairs  are  in  good  order." 

"I'll  go  speak  to  uncle,"  Carter  said;  and  he  turned 
down  the  hall  toward  the  door  in  the  rear. 

He  found  Thomas  Crofton  standing  on  the  steps  of  the 
porch,  his  back  to  the  door,  staring  out  into  the  garden. 
His  head  was  bare,  and  somehow  the  gray  hair  stroked 
back  from  his  high  brow  seemed  to  his  nephew  to  be 
more  scant  than  formerly.  Hearing  Carter's  step,  he 
turned,  seemed  to  start  as  if  in  surprise,  then  with  a 
touch  of  reluctance  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  in  on  schedule  time,  I  see,"  he  said,  simply. 
"That  must  have  been  a  tiresome  trip.  He  died  some 
what  sooner  than  I  expected  or — or  I'd  have  stayed  over 
to  help  you." 

"Yes,  it  was  rather  sudden,"  Carter  answered. 

The  hearse  was  now  at  the  door,  and  a  moment  later 
the  attendants  bore  the  casket  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
drawing-room.  The  two  men  stood  silently  listening  to  the 
harsh  grind  of  feet  on  the  parlor  floor.  Presently  the  at 
tendants  filed  out  through  the  hall  and  descended  the  steps. 

"Will  you  go  in  and  see  him?"  Carter  asked.  "I  think 
the  top  of  the  casket  has  been  removed." 

139 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"No,  I'll  not  see  him — yet!"  Thomas  answered,  with  a 
visible  shudder  and  a  sudden  grim  setting  of  his  features. 
"In  fact,  I  may  not  look  at  him  at  all.  But  your  sister 
and  Henry  may  be  waiting  for  you.  I'll  stay  out  here  at 
present,  anyway.  But  wait  a  minute — just  a  minute. 
You  promised  me — you  remember,  up  in  Cincinnati — 
you  promised  to  come  out  to  my  place  as  soon  as  it  was 
all  over.  I'm  going  back  this  afternoon.  Could  you  come, 
say,  the  day  after  to-morrow,  without  fail?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course!  I  see  nothing  to  prevent  it; 
but  are  you  not  going  to  remain?  Surely  you  know  that 
the  funeral  is  to  be  to-morrow?" 

Thomas  dropped  his  glance.  "I  know  that,  but  I  can 
not  stay.  I  have  my  reasons.  I  sha'n't  be  missed  here, 
and — and  I  must  go  back,  that's  all.  I  must  go  back  at 
once.  I'll  make  it  all  plain  to  you  later.  You'll  under 
stand,  and  will  excuse  me  if  the  rest  do  not.  Say  I'm  sick 
— say  anything,  but  keep  your  promise.  That  is  the  main 
thing  now.  I'll  look  for  you.  You  really  mean  to  come, 
don't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  certainly,"  Carter  answered  in  surprise. 
"In  fact,  I  am  looking  forward  to  it.  There  are  too  many 
sad  reminders  here,  while  out  there  in  the  mountains  with 
you — " 

"Well,  don't  forget.  The  afternoon  train  is  best.  My 
carriage  will  meet  you  at  the  station  about  sundown." 

"But  couldn't  you  stay  over?"  Carter  asked. 

"No,  no.  It  is  out  of  the  question.  I — I'm  needed 
there  more  than  here.  I  would  go  at  once,  but  there  is  no 
earlier  train." 

"Something  is  troubling  you,"  Carter  ventured.  "I 
saw  that  in  Cincinnati.  You  seem  even  more  worried 
now." 

"Yes,  it  is  trouble,  but  I  can't  explain  now.  Nobody 
can  help  me  but  you,  and  you  say  you  are  coming  without 
fail?" 

140 


THE    INNER    LAW 

"Yes,  without  fail,  and  if  it  is  money  you  need,  uncle, 
you  have  only  to  mention — " 

"It  is  not  money,"  Thomas  blurted  out.  "God  knows 
I  wish  it  were  that." 

Carter  shuddered.  His  gloom,  almost  like  a  palpable 
substance,  clung  to  him  as  he  went  into  the  house  in 
search  of  Milicent.  "His  mind  may  be  failing,  too,"  he 
reflected.  "  He  certainly  is  acting  strangely.  His  brood 
ing  habits  and  solitary  life  are  killing  him." 

He  did  not  see  Milicent,  and  he  sat  down  in  the  library 
to  wait  for  her.  The  door  which  led  into  the  parlor  was 
open,  and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  somber  casket  in 
the  center  of  the  room.  He  knew  that  the  face  of  the 
corpse  was  exposed  to  view;  but  he  felt  no  inclination  to 
see  it  just  now.  When  Milicent  came  he  would  support 
her  through  the  ordeal,  but  not  till  then  would  he  look  at 
the  vanishing  symbol  of  the  man  he  had  loved. 

He  began  to  make  plans.  Somehow  such  thoughts 
charged  upon  him  like  soldiers  in  ambush  at  the  most 
unexpected  moments.  To-morrow  morning  the  funeral 
would  be  over.  The  grim  thing  on  the  stools  and  in  its 
box  of  metal  would  be  put  for  ever  out  of  sight,  and  he 
would  be  free  to  think  and  act  for  himself  again.  The 
following  day  would  find  him  at  his  uncle's.  The  busi 
ness,  whatever  it  was,  would  soon  be  settled,  and  then 
he  would  take  one  of  his  glorious  mountain  walks.  He 
would  have  to  pass  Mrs.  Romley's  cabin.  Lydia  would 
be  outside  at  work.  He  would  slip  up  behind  her  while 
she  stood  at  the  well  or  the  wash-tub.  She  would  cry 
out  and  blush  in  blended  joy  and  surprise.  He  would 
clasp  her  in  his  arms,  kiss  her  beautiful  mouth,  and 
tell  her  how  he  had  missed  her,  longed  for  her  and  suffered 
for  the  lack  of  her  sweet  companionship  through  all  his 
trouble. 

Milicent  was  coming  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  Henry, 
and  Carter  rose  to  meet  them.  Milicent  was  weeping 

141 


THE    INNER   LAW 

softly,  and  it  struck  Carter  that  his  brother,  spick  and 
span  in  new  clothes,  was  a  most  ridiculous  sight  as  he 
stood  wiping  his  dry  eyes  on  a  black-bordered  handker 
chief,  screwing  his  face  into  a  look  of  woe,  and  making 
a  snuffing  sound  through  his  drink-reddened  nose. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON  the  day  following  the  funeral  Carter  alighted  from 
the  train  at  Benton.  Old  Hank  was  there  with  the 
carriage  to  meet  him,  and  they  were  soon  on  the  way  to 
the  farm. 

"How  is  my  uncle?"  Carter  inquired.  "He  did  not 
seem  quite  well  in  Atlanta  the  other  day." 

"De  Lawd  only  know  what  do  ail  Marse  Tom,"  Hank 
said,  succinctly.  "Some'n's  wrong,  but  I  don't  know 
what  'tis.  Per  de  last  mont' — sence  you  lef  'im — he's 
been  act  powerful  quar  an'  restless.  I've  ketched  'im 
up  at  all  hours  thoo  de  night,  an'  heard  'im  prayin'  time 
after  time  when  he  didn't  know  I  was  nigh  'im." 

Carter  did  not  encourage  the  negro  to  gossip.  He  felt 
inspired  by  the  glow  the  setting  sun  had  spread  on  the 
western  sky.  Ah,  real  life  was  just  beginning  for  him! 
There  were  thousands  of  adventures  and  experiences 
ahead.  He  would  write  great  poems.  He  would  become 
the  man  he  was  expected  to  become  by  competent  au 
thorities.  He  would  live  abroad.  In  fact,  he  would  sail 
very  soon,  for  the  change  was  just  what  he  needed.  He 
might  take  Lydia,  and  he  might  not  be  able  to  do  so. 
The  enjoyment  of  her  beauty  there  in  the  mountains  in 
secret  was  one  thing,  but  to  take  her  with  him  might  be 
difficult.  He  would  want  to  marry  some  day,  and  surely 
in  time  a  girl  like  Lydia  would  become  a  decided  incubus 
even  to  a  man  of  wealth.  Surely  a  young  man  ought  not 
to  tie  his  life  to  his  first  indiscretion.  He  told  himself 
that  he  would  wait  till  he  had  seen  her  again  and  talked 

143 


THE    INNER   LAW 

it  all  over.  Therewith  he  became  impatient.  The  horses 
seemed  to  be  going  very  slowly.  The  night  was  about  to 
fall.  Mrs.  Romley  soon  would  be  going  back  to  the 
cabin,  and  he  would  have  to  wait  till  the  next  day  for  a 
chance  to  see  the  girl  alone.  How  could  he  possibly  wait 
so  long  with  no  companion  save  his  taciturn,  gloomy 
uncle? 

It  was  almost  dark  when  they  reached  the  farm.  On 
the  lawn  beneath  the  trees,  among  his  beehives,  without 
his  hat,  stood  Thomas  Crofton.  Carter  saw  him  slowly 
turn  and  look  in  his  direction,  and  was  somewhat  sur 
prised  that  the  old  man  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment 
before  advancing  to  him.  It  was  unlike  his  uncle's  usual 
cordial  manner,  and  the  cold,  limp  hand  which  Thomas 
extended,  when  he  finally  met  his  nephew,  seemed  a 
further  departure  from  former  habits. 

"Just  in  time  for  your  supper,"  Thomas  said,  leading 
the  way  up  the  veranda  steps.  "It's  on  the  table.  Go 
in  and  help  yourself.  There  will  be  nobody  to  wait  on 
you  to-night.  Things  here  are  a  little  upset  just  now. 
I've  had  my  milk  and  bread;  that  is  all  I  want,  so  don't 
wait  for  me.  I'll  stay  out  here  awhile.  In  such  weather 
as  this  a  stuffy  house  drives  me  crazy.  I  must  be  out  in 
the  open  or  I  can't  breathe." 

Carter  went  into  the  dimly  lighted  dining-room.  A 
good  cold  supper  was  spread  for  him,  and  yet  it  had  an 
uninviting  look.  He  told  himself,  with  a  pang  of  disap 
pointment,  that  Mrs.  Romley  had  already  finished  her 
work  and  gone  back  to  the  cabin,  and,  that  being  the 
case,  he  would  have  to  wait  till  the  next  day  to  see  Lydia. 
The  thought  angered  him.  An  evening  spent  with  so 
morose  and  non-communicative  a  companion  as  Thomas 
Crofton  was  anything  but  enticing.  It  would  be  some 
new  phase  of  the  old  man's  troubles.  Some  speculation 
had  gone  the  wrong  way,  money  was  needed  to  save  the 
farm,  and  to  whom  could  Thomas  more  reasonably  turn 

144 


THE    INNER    LAW 

than  to  a  nephew  who  had  fallen  heir  to  such  substantial 
wealth?  Carter's  wrath  increased  as  he  sat  down  and 
began  to  eat.  He  told  himself  that  he  really  was  too  good- 
natured.  Every  poor  relative  and  friend  would  now  try 
to  ride  him  like  a  free  horse,  and  if  he  did  not  look  keenly 
to  his  own  interests  how  could  he  keep  his  income  up  to 
what  it  ought  to  be  to  further  his  future  plans?  Yes,  it 
was  money  Thomas  Crofton  was  after,  and  he  was  count 
ing  on  it  so  surely  that  he  could  even  demand  an  imme 
diate  visit  from  the  one  who  was  to  supply  it.  Well,  he 
would  look  into  the  matter  closely  and  he  would  require 
reasonable  security,  if  any  loan  was  made.  He  told  him 
self  that  he  was  a  poet,  but  a  poet  who  was  descended 
from  a  shrewd,  cautious  business  man,  and  he  would  not 
allow  himself  to  be  laughed  at  by  business  men  who  were 
no  doubt  predicting  that  he  would  soon  throw  away 
what  was  left  to  him. 

He  was  finishing  his  supper  when  he  heard  his  uncle  pass 
through  the  hall  and  enter  the  library.  Hank,  who  was 
seated  in  the  kitchen,  rose  and  went  in  after  him. 

"Mus'  I  light  de  lamp?"  the  negro  asked;  and  Carter 
heard  his  uncle  reply: 

"  No,  it's  warm,  and  the  light  attracts  the  moths.  When 
my  nephew  has  eaten  his  supper  ask  him  to  come  to  me 
here." 

The  delivery  of  the  message  was  unnecessary,  for  Car 
ter  was  already  on  his  way  to  the  library.  He  had  to 
stand  in  the  doorway  for  a  moment  to  accustom  himself 
to  the  darkness  before  seeing  where  his  uncle  was.  It 
struck  him  as  odd  that  the  old  man  did  not  speak  to  him 
at  the  moment.  It  was  odd,  too,  that  he  remained  seated 
at  the  library  table,  his  elbows  on  it,  his  head  supported 
by  his  splaying  hands. 

"Sit  down,  please,"  Thomas  said  in  a  voice  full  of 
huskiness.  "I'm  obliged  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  and  I 
want  it  over  with." 

10  US 


THE    INNER   LAW 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  Carter  took  a  seat  near 
the  bowed  man.  He  now  suddenly  recalled  that  his 
uncle  had  assured  him  in  Atlanta,  and  in  Cincinnati  also, 
that  he  was  not  in  need  of  financial  aid.  So  it  was  some 
thing  else,  but  what?  Thomas  now  had  his  hands  over 
his  face  and  began  rubbing  the  sockets  of  his  closed  eyes 
with  his  fingers.  His  palms  muffled  his  faltering  voice 
when  next  he  spoke. 

"Would  you  mind  closing  the  door?" 

Full  of  intangible  forebodings,  Carter  got  up  and  com 
plied.  He  was  sorry  that  there  was  no  light  in  the  room. 
It  was  quite  dark,  now  that  the  rays  of  the  dining-room 
lamp  were  no  longer  admitted.  In  the  gloom  Thomas 
Crofton's  skin  seemed  to  shine  faintly  like  phosphorus. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  not  come  to-day,"  he  said, 
huskily.  "If  you  hadn't  I'd  have  been  in  to-morrow. 
I've  got  to  tell  you  something — I've  got  to  tell  you  a 
thing  that  has  never  passed  my  lips — a  thing  known  by 
no  living  creature.  I  want  it  off  of  my  burthened  soul. 
The  telling  of  it  may  do  you  good.  Who  knows?  God 
only  can  foresee  the  outcome.  I  may  break  down  before 
I  get  through.  It  is  a  hard  thing  to  put  into  words  a 
matter  that  has  never  been  expressed  in  words,  that  has 
only  been  in  one's  thoughts  night  and  day  for  several 
years." 

Carter  heard  the  speaker  heave  a  sigh.  A  feeling  akin 
to  terror  was  on  him  as  he  resumed  his  seat.  Here,  he 
told  himself,  was  another  case  of  insanity  in  the  family, 
and  it  might  foreshadow  his  own  fate. 

"Couldn't  we  wait  till  morning,  uncle?"  he  pleaded, 
gently.  "I  am  tired,  and  I  see  that  you  are  unduly 
excited." 

"No,  no,  I  can't  wait.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  in 
Cincinnati.  Failing  that,  I  ought  to  have  told  you  the  day 
you  got  back  to  Atlanta.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  the 
whole  story  over  your  father's  dead  body.  I  ought  to 

146 


THE    INNER    LAW 

leave  no  stone  unturned  to  make  you  understand  me  fully 
and  act,  act,  act!" 

"You  are  excited,  uncle,"  Carter  repeated. 

"I  know  it.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  trying  now  to 
control  myself.  I  must  be  calm.  O  God  help  me!" 
Thomas  here  beat  his  breast  with  his  right  hand,  the  dull 
strokes  sounding  through  the  room.  "O  God  help  me, 
and  through  me,  help  him.  It  is  all  I  can  offer  now." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  house  was  very  still.  A  cow 
was  lowing  in  a  distant  pasture.  A  cricket  beneath  the 
sills  of  the  building  was  snarling  intermittently. 

"I  must  tell  you  my  life,  and  you  must  listen.  You 
must  not  lose  a  word.  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  the  curse 
of  lust  that  lies  on  us  Crofton  men.  You've  seen  it  in 
your  father;  you  see  it  in  your  brother.  It  was  in  me — 
I  say  was  because  there  is  not  now  physical  life  enough 
left  in  my  flesh  and  bones  to  foster  it.  The  desperate 
yearning  of  my  soul  to  escape  it  has  borne  fruit  of  a  cer 
tain  sort.  I  am  trying  to  get  right — trying  to  get  for 
giveness — trying  to  see  God's  face  turned  toward  me. 

"Listen.  In  college  and  afterward  as  a  young  unmar 
ried  man  I  gloried  in  the  strength  of  my  physical  being. 
I  lived  as  I  saw  fit,  as  your  father  lived,  as  most  of  our 
social  equals  lived.  I  thought  nothing  of  a  helpless  wom 
an's  honor.  Women  were  made  for  me  and  the  like  of 
me.  I  was  on  the  point  of  marrying  the  woman  who 
later  became  my  wife.  I  loved  her  with  a  love  that  can 
never  die.  She  loved  me  in  return,  and  we  became  en 
gaged  to  be  married.  She  was  too  pure  of  mind  to  dream 
of  the  existence  of  the  filth  that  lay  in  my  being.  I  was 
her  ideal,  and  I  let  her  keep  it.  We  were  to  be  married 
in  the  winter,  and  in  the  early  fall  she  went  for  a  visit 
to  her  relatives  in  Virginia.  It  was  then,  while  she  was 
away,  that  I  met  a  poor  country  girl  of  what  we  idle  young 
slaveholders  called  the  lowest  class  of  whites.  I  man 
aged  to  meet  her  almost  daily.  I  knew  that  a  young  back- 

147 


THE    INNER   LAW 

woodsman  of  fine  character  was  in  love  with  her.  I  knew 
that  I  ought  not  to  come  between  the  two,  but  my  pas 
sion  overpowered  me.  I  won  her  confidence  by  a  thou 
sand  tricks  of  face,  voice,  and  action.  I  ruined  her. 
Only  a  short  while  before  my  marriage,  which  I  hoped 
God  would  bless,  I  wrecked  the  life  of  an  innocent  human 
soul.  I  tried  to  pacify  the  poor  girl,  but  she  was  in  tor 
ment,  for  she  was  facing  disgrace  through  the  conse 
quence  of  our  act.  How  it  came  about  I  do  not  know, 
but,  in  her  despair,  she  confided  in  her  old  lover.  He 
was  a  rare  man,  one  in  a  million,  for  he  came  to  me — not 
with  murder  in  his  mind,  but  with  the  sole  hope  of  doing 
something  for  the  girl  he  loved  and  pitied.  He  tried  to 
get  me  to  make  her  my  wife.  I  told  him  of  my  engage 
ment,  and  explained  that  it  was  utterly  impossible.  He 
pleaded;  he  wept;  he  told  me  she  was  his  very  life,  and 
that  if  something  was  not  done  for  her  he  would  kill 
himself.  He  came  to  me  several  times,  always  with  that 
desperate  look  in  his  dumb,  pleading  eyes.  He  spoke 
in  dialect;  he  could  not  read  or  write,  and  yet  I  saw  he 
was  my  spiritual  superior.  He  was  nearer  God  than  I 
could  ever  expect  to  be.  He  opened  my  mind  to  things  I 
had  never  dreamt  of.  He  showed  me  what  sin  was.  I 
wrestled  with  God  and  the  devil.  For  days  and  nights 
I  tried  to  muster  up  the  courage  to  write  my  fiancee  a 
frank  confession  and  do  my  full  duty  by  that  helpless 
girl.  But  the  world  and  its  claims  upon  me  overpowered 
me.  I  knew  full  well  what  God  was  demanding,  and  yet 
I  was  too  weak  to  obey.  Announcements  had  been  made 
of  my  approaching  marriage.  I  had  talked  with  the  rela 
tives  of  my  prospective  wife.  She  and  I  had  planned  the 
building  of  this  house.  We  were  well  mated  socially  and 
mentally,  having  like  tastes,  and  her  fortune  was  equal 
to  mine.  There  is  such  a  thing,  my  boy,  as  actually  sell 
ing  one's  soul  into  the  bondage  of  hell.  Skeptics  may 
sneer  and  sniff,  but  they  wouldn't  if  they  knew  what  I 

148 


THE   INNER   LAW 

know.  I  know  that  in  refusing  God's  aid  at  that  time 
and  taking  the  advice  of  the  devil,  I  deliberately  gave 
my  soul  over  to  the  torments  of  the  damned.  I  know 
there  is  a  hell,  for  I  have  been  in  it  for  years. 

"One  day  this  man  I  have  told  you  about  came  to  me 
and  said  the  girl  had  promised  to  marry  him.  I  could 
have  danced  with  joy  to  the  music  of  hell  itself.  I  told 
him  he  was  saving  me.  Then  I  made  a  mistake.  I  of 
fered  to  give  him  a  certain  sum  of  money.  This  enraged 
him.  He  shook  his  fist  in  my  face;  he  caught  my  throat 
and  started  to  strangle  me,  and  then  desisted,  going  away, 
declaring  that  nothing  but  just  punishment  could  be  my 
portion. 

"I  rankled  under  his  fierce  rebuke.  It  comes  to  me 
afresh  every  day.  I  cringed  under  the  memory  of  it  as 
I  stood  at  the  altar  with  my  spotless  bride  on  my  arm  in 
that  fashionable  old  church.  His  prophecy  of  misfortune 
and  his  curse  upon  my  life  haunted  me  constantly.  They 
were  married  and  moved  over  the  mountain  into  another 
county.  A  child  was  born — my  child,  and  yet  he  gave 
the  little  girl  his  name.  I  saw  her  once  by  accident  when 
she  was  about  three  years  of  age.  She  was  beautiful, 
gentle,  and  refined.  That,  too,  was  added  to  the  torture 
of  my  soul.  I  had  robbed  my  own  blood  of  its  rights. 

"We  were  living  here,  my  wife  and  I,  in  this  house, 
when  our  own  baby  was  born.  I  had  been  ambitious  to 
write  poetry,  as  you  now  are,  but  all  my  inspiration  sud 
denly  left  me.  I  could  not  fix  my  thoughts  upon  such 
work.  The  things  I  had  done  in  the  past  filled  my  mind 
too  completely. 

"My  son  grew  up  to  be  a  manly  fellow,  as  you  know. 
But  God  only  knows  what  I  suffered  through  him.  I 
watched  him  constantly,  fearing  in  my  guilt  that  he  would 
inherit  the  family  lust.  He  was  never  out  at  night  that 
I  did  not  lie  awake  fancying  that  he  was  doing  the  things 
that  I  had  done.  He  was  pure  in  thought  and  deed,  but 

149 


THE    INNER   LAW 

part  of  my  punishment  was  that  I  should  judge  him  by 
myself.  I  was  suffering  the  agonies  of  hell,  and  was  re 
signed  to  it,  but  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  my 
adored  son  would  follow  in  my  steps,  down,  down  to 
damnation.  I  worshiped  him.  I  actually  worshiped  him. 
Then  he—" 

The  old  man's  voice  became  husky  and  inaudible. 
There  was  silence.  Carter  broke  it. 

"Why  are  you  telling  me  all  this?"  he  demanded,  grown 
suddenly  suspicious,  even  alarmed. 

"Wait,  and  you  will  see."  Thomas  was  recovering 
himself.  "Wait.  You'll  understand — yes,  yes,  you  sure 
ly  will!  Don't  interrupt  me.  I  must  go  on.  My  son, 
at  the  age  of  twenty,  was  visiting  some  friends  over  the 
mountain,  and  there — there  he  met  and  fell  in  love  with 
— whom  do  you  think?  My  God!  in  all  the  wide,  wide 
world  full  of  women  whom  do  you  think  my  boy  met  and 
loved?  His  own  half-sister!" 

"Oh!"  escaped  from  the  listener's  tense  lips. 

"You  may  well  exclaim,  but  do  you  fancy  that  was  all? 
Do  you  think  any  but  a  wrathful,  revenging  God  could 
visit  such  punishment  on  a  guilty  soul?  The  girl  was 
poor,  but  she  was  beautiful  and  pure,  and  my  son,  meet 
ing  her  in  secret  many  times,  and  sure  of  her  love,  deter 
mined  to  marry  her.  He  not  only  determined  to  do  so, 
but  he  came  and  told  me  that  he  could  not  live  without 
her.  I  was  speechless;  I  was  tied  hand  and  foot;  the 
more  I  tried  to  change  his  intentions,  without  being  able 
to  tell  him  the  truth,  the  more  determined  he  became. 
He  defied  me.  They  planned  a  secret  elopement.  He 
joined  the  girl  one  night.  They  were  about  to  leave  her 
home  in  a  buggy.  The  girl,  thinking  her  mother  would 
be  sympathetic,  told  her  what  she  was  about  to  do.  Her 
mother  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but,  failing,  became  hys 
terical  and  confessed  the  truth  to  both  of  them.  Tom 
came  home  directly.  His  mother  and  I  were  here  in  this 

150 


THE    INNER   LAW 

very  room  when  he  staggered  in,  his  clothing  disarranged, 
his  eyes  wild  and  staring,  his  face  haggard,  and  right  here 
before  the  woman  who  till  then  had  trusted  me  he  told 
me  what  he  had  heard.  He  asked  me  if  it  was  true.  I 
could  not  lie  to  him.  Then  he  told  me  that  he  hated  me, 
that  his  soul  writhed  at  the  thought  that  he  was  the  son 
of  such  a  human  scab.  He  turned  and  left  us,  went  to 
his  room  and  shut  the  door.  I  bent  over  his  mother,  who 
lay  rather  than  sat  in  a  chair.  I  started  to  raise  her  up, 
but,  choking  down  a  shriek  of  disgust,  she  sprang  from 
me  and  hid  herself  in  her  own  room. 

"I  sat  here  just  as  I  am  sitting  now,  facing  what  no 
other  man  has  ever  faced  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
Hours  passed.  There  was  no  sound  from  my  wife's  room 
or  from  my  son's.  I  went  to  her  door  and  knocked.  She 
came  to  the  door,  opened  it  a  little,  and  coldly  demanded 
that  I  should  go  away.  I  went  to  Tom's  room.  I  rapped. 
There  was  no  sound.  I  rapped  again  and  again.  Then 
I  turned  the  latch  and  went  in.  He  was  lying  on  his  bed. 
A  box  which  had  contained  morphine  powders  lay  on  the 
floor.  He  had  killed  himself" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  that!"  Carter  cried  in  horror. 

"No,  I  kept  it  a  secret,"  the  old  man  groaned,  softly. 
"The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  hide  the  evidence  of  the  act. 
Then  I  sent  for  my  wife.  She  came  and  looked  at  our 
boy,  gently  stroked  his  cold  cheek,  kissed  his  brow,  and 
without  looking  at  me  she  left  the  room.  The  coroner 
held  an  inquest.  My  wife  was  excused  from  being  pres 
ent,  owing  to  prostration.  I  testified.  To  hide  the  awful 
truth  I  swore  that  my  son  had  had  touches  of  heart-weak 
ness,  and  gave  it  as  my  opinion  that  his  sudden  death  was 
due  to  heart-failure.  It  was  believed.  No  human  soul 
doubted  it,  save  my  wife,  who  was  willing  to  hide  the  facts 
from  the  world. 

"We  buried  him.  My  wife  went  into  the  church  and 
to  the  grave  on  my  arm.  She  returned  here  and  lived  be- 


THE   INNER    LAW 

fore  the  world  as  my  wife  for  six  months  longer,  but  with 
out  ever  speaking  once  to  me.  She  died  of  a  broken  heart. 
But  I  lived  on.  People  hinted  that  I  was  becoming  in 
sane;  but  I  was  and  am  to-day  the  sanest  man  alive,  for 
I  know  better  than  the  wisest  man  on  earth  the  conse 
quences  of  the  violation  of  God's  laws.  My  illegitimate 
daughter  and  her  mother  and  foster  father  moved  away. 
I  have  never  seen  them  since." 

"But  why — why  do  you  tell  me  all  this?"  Carter  ques 
tioned,  tremulously. 

"Wait  and  you'll  comprehend.  I  am  coming  to  that 
now.  I  have  tried  every  possible  way  to  atone — to  get 
peace.  I  prayed  night  and  day  for  years.  I  humbled 
myself.  Secretly  I  did  all  I  could  to  help  others.  Then 
one  day  I  read  a  notice  about  you  and  your  bright  pros 
pects,  and  my  heart  warmed  to  you,  as  I  remembered 
how  Tom  had  loved  you.  I  kept  thinking  about  you  and 
your  future.  You  recall  our  talk  at  your  house  that 
evening?  I  thought  I  was  reading  you  aright.  I  knew 
you  were  at  the  turning-point  which  all  young  men  reach. 
You  were  surrounded  by  the  same  temptations  that  had 
surrounded  me  at  your  age.  Your  most  intimate  friend 
was  Charley  Farnham,  and  I  knew  his  influence  was  bad, 
for  everybody  knows  what  sort  of  man  he  is.  Do  you 
know  what  I  did  before  that  talk  with  you?  I  prayed  to 
God  that  He  would  let  me  be  the  means  of  saving  you, 
and  that  your  salvation  might  be  a  sign  from  on  high 
that  I  was  on  the  way  to  forgiveness." 

"Of  saving  me?"  Carter  said,  under  his  breath. 

"Yes,  for  I  saw  the  Crofton  weakness  in  your  eyes,  in 
your  full  lips — in  two  or  three  of  your  poems — those 
which  were  not  accepted  for  publication.  I  begged  you 
to  come  live  out  here,  you  remember.  That  was  to  get 
you  away  from  the  city  and  its  influences.  I  intended 
to  unfold  my  history  to  you  that  it  might  be  a  lesson 
that  you'd  never  forget.  You  came.  I  watched  and 

152 


THE    INNER   LAW 

prayed.  I  went  away  for  days  at  a  time  and  prayed 
alone  on  the  mountain-top.  My  own  salvation  seemed 
to  lie  in  your  hands.  Then,  then — oh,  my  God!" 

* '  What  is  the  matter  ?"  Carter  gasped,  uneasily.  ' '  Uncle, 
what  is  the  matter?" 

With  a  deep  groan  Thomas  lowered  his  head  to  his 
hands  and  sat  like  a  figure  of  stone. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Carter  repeated,  his  voice  shak 
ing,  a  great  fear  clutching  him. 

"One  evening,"  Thomas  went  on,  with  an  effort  to 
steady  his  voice,  "I  was  out  looking  for  you  to  inform 
you  that  you  were  wanted  in  Atlanta,  your  father  being 
ill,  and  I  saw  you  leaving  Mrs.  Romley's  cabin.  I  was 
afraid  even  to  hint  to  you  what  I  feared,  and  so  I  let  you 
leave  without  mentioning  it." 

"What — what  you  feared?11  Carter  echoed  the  words 
in  quaking  dismay.  "Why,  uncle,  I — " 

"  Don't  lie  to  me!  I  am  in  no  mood  for  that.  I  won't 
stand  it!" 

"Then — then  I  won't,"  Carter  muttered,  doggedly. 
"I  won't." 

"  It  would  do  no  good  to  lie.  I  was  obliged  to  know  the 
truth.  I  could  not  bear  the  suspense.  I  was  looking  for 
God's  answer  to  my  prayer  in  your  conduct,  so  I  watched 
the  girl  daily  after  you  went  to  Cincinnati.  One  morn 
ing,  when  you  had  been  away  about  two  weeks,  I  found 
her  weeping  alone  in  the  swamp.  I  sat  down  by  her.  I 
assured  her  I  was  her  friend.  I  told  her  I  would  do  any 
thing  on  earth  for  her,  and  hinted  that  I  suspected  the 
truth  and  was  sorry  for  her.  She  was  touched  by  what 
I  said,  and,  bursting  into  tears,  she  confessed  everything. 
For  more  than  an  hour  we  sat  there  in  silence,  I  as  des 
perate  as  she.  I  finally  advised  her  to  tell  her  mother, 
and  that  night  she  did  so." 

Silence  fell.  Carter  heard  his  uncle  breathing  heavily. 
Presently  the  young  man  spoke: 

153 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"  You've  yielded  to  temptation  yourself,  uncle,  and  at 
my  age,  too;  surely  you  won't  judge  me  harshly.  I  had 
no  idea  of  doing  what  I  did.  I  know  it  was  wrong, 
wrong,  wrong,  but  it  is  done.  It  is  over  now." 

"Over?  You  think  it  is  over?  Look  at  me  and  see  if 
mine  is  over.  I  tell  you — and  I'm  speaking  with  the 
very  voice  of  God — I  tell  you  if  you  do  not  profit  by 
what  I've  told  you,  if  you  do  not  profit  by  the  sight  of 
me,  as  I  sit  here  scorched  by  the  flames  of  my  writhing 
soul,  your  punishment  may  be  even  worse  than  mine  is. 
You  may  be  even  more  culpable,  for  you  are  now  warned. 
If  you  do  not  do  your  duty — if  you  allow  empty,  God- 
cursed  pride  of  birth  and  position  to  hold  you  back  you 
will  be  selling  your  eternal  soul  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 
Your  newly  acquired  gold,  your  puny  fame,  your  family 
name — all  that  you  value  now  will  either  vanish  or  mock 
your  guilty  soul  when  it  is  too  late  to  undo  what  you 
have  done." 

The  young  man's  head  sank.  His  face  was  hot  with 
shame.  He  crossed  his  legs  and  nervously  fumbled  the 
string  of  one  of  his  shoes  which  rested  on  his  quivering 
knee. 

"You  think  I  ought  to  make  her  my  wife?"  he  asked, 
huskily. 

"I  know  it.  To  do  your  duty  may  seem  difficult,  but 
to  neglect  it  will  destroy  your  peace  of  mind  for  ever. 
You've  committed  a  crime.  You  have  a  chance  to  escape, 
a  chance  that  I  missed.  The  girl  is  uneducated,  but  she 
has  a  fine  mind  and  will  make  you  a  faithful  wife.  God 
will  bless  you  with  ultimate  happiness  if  you  will  stand  by 
her  like  a  man.  You  will  never  get  over  it  if  you  don't." 

"You  are  asking  me  to  do  what  you  yourself  refused 
to  do,"  Carter  argued,  faintly.  "Can  I  be  less  human 
than  you  were  at  my  age?  In  fact,  it  would  be  harder 
for  me  than  it  would  have  been  for  you.  The  critics,  the 
press,  my  friends,  society,  all  expect  me  to — " 

154 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Thomas  rose  to  his  full  height  and  stood  slightly  sway 
ing  in  the  dark.  He  snapped  his  fingers.  "Only  perdi 
tion  could  advance  such  empty  excuses!"  he  cried,  fiercely. 
"Do  you  think  God  will  let  your  rotten  plans  succeed  any 
better  than  He  did  mine?  Did  not  my  plans  draw  to  my 
bosom  a  wife  I  adored,  a  son  I  worshiped,  and  did  I 
not  live  to  see  them  die  with  loathing  in  their  hearts  for 
me?  Great  heavens,  man!  Don't  you  see  that  I  would 
not  be  demanding  this  with  the  last  black  drop  of  my  lost 
soul's  blood  if  it  were  not  right?  If  I,  who  am  almost  the 
food  of  maggots,  can  look  up  from  the  depths  of  my  own 
hell  to  plead  with  you  to  save  yourself  from  my  fate,  how 
can  you  hesitate?  Is  your  puny  gift  for  jingling  words, 
your  possession  of  a  name  that  is  a  lie  and  a  sham,  your  ill- 
gotten  wealth  to  stand  between  you  and  your  honest  duty?" 

Carter  rose.  He  caught  his  uncle's  hand  and  pressed 
it.  His  voice  shook.  "You've  said  enough,"  he  replied. 
"I'll  do  my  duty.  I  promise  it  here  and  now.  I'll  go  to 
her  to-night.  We'll  be  married  at  once." 

"You  can't — now,  at  least.  She's  gone,"  the  old  man 
said. 

"Gone?" 

"Yes.  I  didn't  stay  for  the  funeral  and  hurried  back 
from  Atlanta  to  prevent  it,  but  failed.  I  did  not  like  the 
way  Mrs.  Romley  was  acting.  She  is  a  queer  woman. 
Without  knowing  the  cause  of  it,  she  has  known  for  some 
time  that  I  am  a  miserable  man.  She  was  in  great  dis 
tress  a  few  years  ago.  She  needed  money  to  help  a 
brother  of  hers  who  was  dying  of  consumption  out  West. 
I  furnished  it,  and  she  is  so  grateful  for  my  aid  that  she 
now  looks  upon  this  trouble  as  adding  to  mine,  and  so 
she  has  taken  Lydia  away.  She  has  not  once  thought  of 
your  marrying  her.  In  her  humility — there  are  such  per 
sons  in  the  world — she  blames  the  girl  rather  than  you; 
but  that  doesn't  free  you,  you  understand — not  in  God's 
eyes." 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"No,  it  doesn't  free  me,"  Carter  agreed.  "I'll  follow 
them.  Do  you  know  where  they  went?" 

"I  managed  to  find  that  out,"  the  old  man  answered. 
"I  thought  I  might  persuade  you  to  do  your  duty.  From 
the  station  agent  at  Benton  I  discovered  that  they  have 
shipped  their  few  belongings  to  New  Orleans.  Mrs. 
Romley  once  lived  there  with  a  married  sister  of  hers, 
who  is  still  there.  I  do  not  know  the  street  or  number; 
but  if  you  will  go  to  New  Orleans  at  once  you  will  be  apt 
to  run  across  them.  I  am  quite  sure  that  they  are  there, 
and  intend  to  stay." 

"I  will  take  the  first  train  to-morrow,"  Carter  prom 
ised.  "Uncle,  will  that  satisfy  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,  and  may  God  bless  you,  my  boy."  Sud 
denly  the  old  man  turned  and  abruptly  stalked  from  the 
room,  leaving  his  nephew  standing  at  the  table. 

Carter  sat  down  in  the  darkness.  He  locked  his  tense 
hands  between  his  knees  and  bent  forward.  "I'll  do  it, 
I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  half  aloud.  "I  love  her— I  love  her! 
Oh,  Lydia,  will  you  ever  forgive  me?  I  want  you — want 
you!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  following  evening  at  eight  o'clock  Carter  arrived 
in  New  Orleans.  He  went  to  the  nearest  hotel  to 
the  station,  registered  his  name,  and  asked  for  the  best 
room  available. 

"Ah,  you  are  from  Atlanta!"  the  dapper  young  clerk 
said  with  an  affable  smile.  "I  know  of  you,  Mr.  Crofton. 
I  stayed  for  a  while  at  the  Kimball  House  in  your  bustling 
city.  Down  to  see  something  of  our  society,  eh?  Well, 
it  is  gay  enough  here.  You  must  see  the  French  quarter. 
Let  me  know  when  you  want  to  see  the  sights,  and  I'll 
put  you  on  to  the  ropes.  That's  part  of  my  duty." 

"I  am  not  going  to  see  much  of  the  city,"  Carter  an 
swered,  awkwardly,  angry  over  having  to  explain  even 
so  much  to  the  mere  night-clerk  of  a  hotel,  who  he  felt 
had  no  right  to  speak  to  him  when  he  was  in  no  mood 
for  it. 

"Ah,  business,  eh?"  the  clerk  ran  on. 

"Yes,  business.  I  am  tired,  and  wish  to  go  up  to  my 
room  at  once." 

"Certainly,  certainly."  The  clerk  struck  a  call-bell, 
and  a  porter  took  his  bag,  conducted  him  to  the  elevator, 
and  thence  to  his  room.  However,  once  there,  and  hav 
ing  bathed,  dusted  his  clothes,  and  brushed  his  hair,  there 
was  nothing  else  he  could  think  of  doing,  so  he  sat  down 
and  began  to  smoke.  He  took  up  a  newspaper,  but  found 
that  while  his  eyes  were  following  the  lines  automatically 
he  was  unconscious  of  what  they  stood  for.  The  incon 
gruity  of  his  position  struck  him  keenly  as  he  fell  into  his 

?57 


THE   INNER   LAW 

habit  of  introspection  and  self-analysis.  Could  any  per 
son  of  his  acquaintance,  on  meeting  him  there,  dream  of 
the  uncouth  object  of  his  visit?  After  all,  had  such  a 
thing  ever  happened  to  a  proud  man  of  exquisite  taste  and 
refinement?  He  had  always  fancied  that  his  wedding, 
when  it  did  come  about,  would  be  of  notable  importance, 
and  now  he  saw  no  other  way  than  to  make  it  very  pri 
vate,  if  not  temporarily  a  secret  one.  He  was  disturbed 
by  the  thought  of  either  contingency.  If  private,  his 
marriage  to  a  girl  in  Lydia's  walk  of  life  would  have  to 
be  adequately  explained  and  justified  to  a  penetrating 
public  which  was  watching  his  movements  more  just  now 
than  ever  before.  If  secret,  only  one  construction  could 
be  put  upon  his  union  with  such  a  girl,  and  that  con 
struction  would  mar  his  life  and  Lydia's.  Lydia  was 
beautiful  bodily,  and  her  quick  mind  gave  rare  promise 
of  future  development,  but  just  now  to  introduce  her  to 
his  friends  as  his  chosen  life  companion  would  excite  com 
ment,  if  not  suspicion.  What  was  to  be  done?  Why  had 
he  not  asked  the  advice  of  his  uncle  on  those  points? 

The  night  was  warm  and  sultry;  the  room  seemed  op 
pressively  close,  so,  wrought  to  a  high  state  of  nervous 
ness  by  the  turmoil  in  his  mind,  he  decided  to  go  down  to 
the  streets  and  stroll  about  till  a  reasonable  bedtime. 
He  did  not  think  it  was  likely  that  he  would  meet  either 
Lydia  or  her  mother,  and  vaguely  he  hoped  he  would  not 
do  so  till  he  had  slept  upon  the  problem  uppermost  in  his 
thoughts.  So  he  walked  through  the  streets,  going  here 
and  there  without  aim  or  even  knowledge  of  his  where 
abouts.  Part  of  the  time  he  was  actually  aglow  with  the 
expectation  of  meeting  Lydia  again  and  holding  her  to 
his  breast  and  making  arrangements  for  their  immediate 
marriage;  then  again  the  two  difficulties  which  he  had 
just  been  considering  confronted  him  like  an  impassable 
wall  of  stone.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  not  thinking 
of  himself  in  viewing  these  difficulties,  but  of  the  beautiful 


THE    INNER   LAW 

mountain  child  whose  future  character  must  be  con 
sidered  as  spotless  since  he  himself  had  so  ruthlessly 
handled  her. 

It  was  late  when  he  finally  returned  to  his  room,  and 
when  he  had  undressed  and  was  ready  for  bed  he  obeyed 
a  sudden  desperate  impulse  and  sank  on  his  knees  and 
tried  to  pray  to  he  knew  not  what,  for  a  God  of  dogmatic 
origin  no  longer  appealed  to  him.  Still,  he  felt  that  there 
must  be  something  in  prayer.  He  felt  that  there  might 
be,  or  ought  to  be,  some  spiritual  principle,  or  intelligent 
force  at  the  back  of  the  universe,  that  would  aid  him. 
But  though  he  prayed  that  night  deeply  and  sincerely  for 
guidance,  no  sort  of  response  came,  and  with  a  groan  of 
deeper  indecision  than  ever  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed, 
where  for  hours  he  lay,  unable  to  sleep. 

A  week  went  by  without  result  in  the  quest  which  had 
brought  him  to  New  Orleans,  and  he  was  beginning  to 
lose  faith  in  his  pursuit.  He  went  to  the  post-office  and 
inquired  there  for  information,  but  received  none.  Such 
individuals  were  unknown  to  the  postmaster  or  the  mail- 
carriers.  He  went  to  police  headquarters  and  mentioned 
his  desire  to  find  "two  missing  friends  who  had  recently 
come  to  the  city,"  but  received  no  aid. 

A  fortnight  passed  and  he  was  no  whit  nearer  his  ob 
ject.  He  had  lost  flesh;  he  was  pale,  haggard,  and  ner 
vous.  He  was  returning  one  evening,  when  he  found 
Farnham  waiting  for  him  in  the  foyer  of  the  hotel.  Their 
eyes  met.  Carter's  glance  fell  to  the  ground,  and  a  flush 
crept  into  his  wan  face  as  he  reluctantly  took  his  friend's 
extended  hand. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me,  I  know,"  Farnham  began, 
rather  awkwardly  for  so  suave  an  individual.  "The 
truth  is,  I've  been  looking  for  you.  I've  been  consider 
ably  worried,  so  has  your  sister.  There  are  some  family 
papers  to  sign  by  the  three  heirs  of  your  father's  estate. 
They  are  of  no  importance,  in  fact,  but  everything  of  a 


THE    INNER   LAW 

legal  nature  is  important  to  women.  Where  their  finan 
cial  interests  are  involved  they  are  painfully  accurate, 
and  your  sister  has  become  already  quite  a  woman  of 
business.  She  knows  exactly  what  her  various  holdings 
are,  and  she  intends  to  look  out  for  her  best  interests. 
She  is  the  type  of  woman  who  will  make  money." 

''But  why  were  you  worried?"  Carter  managed  to  ask. 

"Well" — Farnham  seemed  to  be  selecting  his  words 
diplomatically — "you  see,  I  could  see  no  rational  reason 
for  your  sudden  disappearance.  We  hold  large  interests 
in  common,  and  naturally  I  wanted  to  talk  them  over 
with  you.  That  was  one  reason;  the  other  is  that  I  have 
been  afraid  that  you  were  allowing  yourself  to  become 
morbid  over  your  father's  death.  I  tried  to  find  you  in 
Atlanta,  but  failed.  I  went  out  to  your  uncle's,  but  he 
would  tell  me  nothing.  I'm  afraid  he  is  losing  his  mind. 
He  is  a  walking  corpse.  He  bluntly  refused  to  talk  of 
you  at  all,  and  was  so  silent  and  despondent  that  I  hardly 
knew  what  to  make  of  it.  In  a  business  way  I  wanted 
to  see  you  specially." 

Mechanically,  and  still  abashed,  Carter  led  him  into 
a  little  smoking-room  adjoining  the  foyer.  "You  say 
you  wanted  to — to  see  me,  specially?"  he  faltered,  as 
they  sat  down. 

"Yes,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  consult  with  you  about  our 
railroad  meeting.  As  a  chief  stockholder  you  must  be 
present.  It  takes  place  next  Thursday.  And  as  I  learned 
by  accident  that  you  were  here — " 

"By  accident?" 

"Yes;  there  was  a  slight  local  mention  of  you  in  one 
of  the  New  Orleans  papers." 

"I  did  not  see  it,"  Carter  said,  suspiciously,  fearfully. 
"When  was  it?" 

"Yesterday.  It  was  only  a  few  lines  which  said  that 
you  had  come  here  for  local  color,  literary  material,  or 
something  of  the  sort,  and  that  you  were  living  quietly 

160 


THE   INNER   LAW 

at  this  hotel  and  were  at  work  on  something.  I  begin  to 
think  you  are  a  real  poet.  You  certainly  are  acting  like 
a  genius.  I  presume  you  have  a  productive  spell  on  you 
just  now,  and  while  you  are  that  way  you  cannot  conduct 
yourself  like  a  mere  ordinary  person." 

Carter  could  formulate  no  suitable  response.  Auto 
matically  he  took  the  cigar  Farnham  was  offering  him,  and 
began  to  pinch  off  the  tip,  his  fingers  shaking.  "I  have 
been  trying  to  write  some,"  he  managed  to  say,  feebly. 
"But  I  am  not  quite  as  well  as  usual,  and  I — " 

"You  show  it,"  Farnham  interrupted,  boldly,  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  determined  to  speak  with  more  candor. 
"You  are  a  walking  shadow  of  your  old  self,  and  must 
call  a  halt.  There  is  no  use  beating  about  the  bush, 
Carter.  I  am  a  true  friend  of  yours,  and  want  to  prove 
it.  I  am  sure  you  are  in  trouble.  It  may  be  due  to  your 
father's  death,  but  I  can't  quite  feel  that  it  is  wholly  that. 
Whatever  it  is,  I  fancy  it  partly  concerns  your  uncle.  At 
least  I  fancy  that  he  knows  something  of  it.  There  is 
only  one  thing  that  seems  plausible" — Farnham  was 
smoking  steadily,  his  shrewd  eyes  averted — "and,  knowing 
the  world  as  I  flatter  myself  that  I  do,  I  am  obliged  to 
entertain  it." 

"And  what  is  that?"  Carter  heard  himself  asking  in  a 
tone  which  quite  confessed  his  dejection. 

"Why,  there  is  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  it.  When  I 
met  you  that  morning  at  Chattanooga  on  your  return 
from  Cincinnati  I  thought  you  had  become  entangled 
with  some  one  you  met  up  there;  but  when  I  went  out 
to  your  uncle's  farm  I  changed  my  mind,  at  least  in  regard 
to  the  woman's  place  of  residence." 

"You  changed  your  mind?"  echoed  Carter.  "Then 
my  uncle  must  have — " 

"No,  he  told  me  nothing,"  Farnham  broke  in;  "but 
I  admit  that  his  disturbed  manner  set  me  to  thinking. 
Then,  in  driving  past — you  remember  the  cabin  where 
ii  161 


THE   INNER   LAW 

that  pretty  mountain  girl  lived? — in  driving  past  that 
cabin  I  noticed  that  it  was  vacant.  Old  Hank  was  at 
work  in  a  field  near  by,  and  he  informed  me  that  the  girl 
and  her  mother  had  suddenly  moved  away  without  tell 
ing  any  one  of  their  intentions,  so  when  I  heard  you  were 
here  light  began  to  break.  Pardon  me,  but  you  remember 
what  I  prophesied  in  regard  to  you  and  that  very  girl?" 

Carter  was  silent.  He  sat  with  bowed  head,  his  limp 
hands  on  his  knees.  Presently  and  in  absolute  despair 
he  became  confidential.  In  a  quivering,  halting  voice  he 
told  his  story  from  beginning  to  end,  not  even  omitting 
the  tragic  matter  his  uncle  had  confided  to  him. 

When  he  had  concluded,  Farnham  leaned  forward, 
smiled,  and  laid  a  would-be  comforting  hand  on  his  knee. 
"I'm  certainly  glad  I  came  to-day,"  he  said.  "You  have 
got  a  brooding,  morbid  imagination,  and  you  have  let 
that  crazy  old  man  upset  you  frightfully.  It  is  a  shame 
for  him  to  play  on  your  emotions  and  sympathy  as  he  has 
done.  He  may  be  suffering.  Who  wouldn't,  living  like 
a  hermit  as  he  does,  with  nothing  on  his  mind  but  such 
horrible  things  as  those?  What  a  foolish  idea  to  tell  you 
that  you  must  necessarily  suffer  exactly  as  he  is  suffering ! 
It  is  all  a  matter  of  temperament.  I  happen  to  know 
dozens  of  happy  married  men  who  have  forgotten  scores 
of  such  natural  boyish  acts  as  you  have  committed.  No 
one  but  a  crazy  lunatic  would  advise  a  person  in  your 
position  to  marry  a  girl  like  that  one  under  such  circum 
stances.  Trouble?  Why,  yours  would  just  begin.  You'd 
never  live  it  down.  You'd  never  hold  up  your  head  after 
ward.  Your  whole  life  would  be  ruined.  It  is  all  rub 
bish  about  that  sort  of  thing  haunting  a  normal  man's 
conscience.  Theft,  mean  business  conduct  between  men, 
will  be  remembered,  and  sting  a  fellow  of  principle,  but 
that  particular  thing  has  never  bothered  a  natural  man. 
Why,  the  girl's  own  mother,  according  to  your  uncle, 
does  not  even  raise  the  slightest  claim  against  you.  What 

162 


THE   INNER   LAW 

does  that  prove  but  that  the  old  woman  knows  her  own 
blood  too  well  to  blame  the  man  in  the  case?  You  are 
more  fortunate  than  I've  been  once  or  twice.  All  you've 
got  to  do  is  simply  to  let  the  two  go  their  way  and  forget 
them.  Huh!  I  had  to  pay,  and  heavily,  more  than  once." 

' '  But  I  don't  want  to  give  her  up.  I  honestly  love  her, ' ' 
Carter  declared,  earnestly. 

"Bosh!  bosh!  bosh!"  Farnham  laughed  merrily. 
"You  think  you  do,  but  you  don't.  A  man  of  your  type 
never  could  love  a  woman  after  what  has  happened.  It 
isn't  in  your  nature.  A  butcher  might,  but  a  poet  of 
your  brand,  never.  I  made  a  true  prediction  about  you 
and  that  girl  once.  Let  me  make  another?" 

"What  is  it?"  There  was  a  rising  note  of  relief  in  the 
subdued  voice  of  the  questioner. 

"Why,  you  are  going  to  be  present  at  that  railroad 
meeting,  and  you  are  going  to  have  the  time  of  your  life 
with  those  jolly  Yankees.  They  all  want  to  meet  you. 
They  call  you  our  poet  mascot.  But  that  is  only  a  starter. 
You  and  I  are  going  to  do  something  together — something 
as  fun-seeking  bachelors,  with  nothing  on  earth  to  bother 
about." 

"What  is  that?"  Carter  asked. 

"It  is  this,"  Farnham  returned.  "You  have  put  a  flea 
in  my  ear  that  lately  has  kicked  a  lot.  You've  said  so 
much  about  the  delights  of  Europe  that  I  want  to  go 
myself.  Now  that  the  railroad  is  all  right,  I  feel  like 
letting  off  steam  and  having  a  real  lark.  As  soon  as  those 
chaps  have  gone  away  in  their  private  cars  you  and  I 
are  going  to  accept  a  certain  bang-up  invitation." 

"An  invitation?    Absurd." 

"  Yes.  The  Red  Star  Ocean  Steamship  Co.  have  offered 
me  two  of  their  best  staterooms  to  Southampton.  They 
will  treat  us  like  princes  on  the  voyage.  I'll  spend  two 
months  with  you  over  there,  then  I'll  leave  you  in  Paris 
or  London  to  pursue  your  work.  I'll  come  back  home 

163 


THE    INNER   LAW 

and  plunge  into  mine.  Your  affairs — all  of  them — are  in 
tiptop  shape.  Your  agent  will  look  after  everything.  If 
he  neglects  you  in  the  slightest  I'll  cable  you." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Presently  Carter  said, 
"I  have  promised  my  uncle  that — " 

"Such  a  promise  ought  not  to  bind  any  rational  man. 
You  were  not  yourself  when  you  made  it;  he  was  taking 
unfair  advantage  of  you.  Why,  you  haven't  the  moral 
right  to  marry  that  girl.  You'd  make  her  life  miserable. 
Would  that  be  just  to  her?  You  couldn't  wholly  love  or 
respect  her.  At  this  moment  you  are  influenced  by  passion 
and  nothing  else.  You'd  never  forget  that  she  was  weak 
enough,  as  all  such  girls  are,  to —  Oh,  you  know  what  I 
mean!  If  she  had  been  a  virtuous  woman  of  your  own 
class  you  would  never  have  acted  toward  her  as  you  did. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  Marriage  would  be 
worse  than  suicide  for  you  both." 

"I  think  I'd  better  do  as  you  say,"  Carter  finally  gave 
in,  conscious  of  a  sickening  sensation  which  was  like,  and 
yet  was  not,  relief.  "Yes,  I'll  do  as  you  say.  I  would 
like  to  have  you  with  me  in  Europe.  I've  always  wanted 
that." 

"Well,  it  is  settled,  then,"  Farnham  said,  smiling  as 
upon  a  wilful  child.  "Now  I'm  off  to  Savannah  and 
Charleston  to-morrow  morning  too  early  for  you  to  be 
up,  so  I'm  going  to  say  good  night  now.  When  shall  I 
expect  you  in  Atlanta?" 

"I'll  leave  here  to-morrow  night." 

"I  may  count  on  that?" 

"Yes — positively,  and  I  am  grateful  to  you,  Charley. 
I  was  awfully,  awfully  upset,  and — and  undecided  as  to 
what  I  really  ought  to  do." 

"  I  know  it,  but  it  is  all  over  now.  Go  to  bed  and  sleep. 
You  need  rest  and  a  free  mind.  Good  night." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HTHE  following  afternoon  Carter  was  packing  his  bag 
1  in  his  room.  He  had  put  all  his  things  into  it,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  a  month  was  whistling  cheerfully,  a 
fine  cigar  between  his  lips.  How  different  was  his  present 
outlook  on  life  from  the  one  he  had  put  aside !  He  felt  as 
a  man  might  who  had  left  a  dungeon  and  come  out  into 
sunlight.  Already  his  health  had  improved.  His  old 
appetite  had  come  back.  His  pride  had  returned.  He 
was  no  longer  inclined  to  avoid  contact  with  the  other 
guests  in  the  hotel.  He  now  wanted  them  to  realize  that 
he  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  genius.  He  astonished  the 
servants  by  lavish  tips  and  friendly,  even  jocular  remarks. 
There  was  a  famous  literary  man  living  in  the  city,  and 
he  now  regretted  that  he  had  not  let  the  man  know  of 
his  presence  there,  for  he  was  sure  the  author  would 
have  called  on  him,  and  entertained  him,  as  was  his  due. 
The  scheme  of  his  great  epic  began  to  warm  his  brain; 
two  striking  lines  occurred  to  him,  and  he  wrote  them 
down  with  a  real  thrill  of  satisfaction.  If  he  was  not 
right  in  taking  Farnham's  advice  in  regard  to  Lydia,  why 
this  return  to  hope,  health,  and  happiness?  Had  a 
man  the  right  to  destroy  all  his  chances  in  life  for  the 
whimsical  notion  of  a  self-tortured,  morbid  recluse  such 
as  his  uncle  was?  No,  decidedly  no! 

At  this  instant  he  heard  a  rap  on  the  door.  It  startled 
him,  he  knew  not  why.  Going  to  the  door,  he  opened  it. 
It  was  one  of  the  bell-boys. 

"There  is  a  gentleman  down  in  the  office  who  says  he 
wants  to  see  you,"  the  boy  announced. 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"To  see  me?"  Vague,  unaccountable  fears  fell  upon 
Carter.  ' '  Where  is  his  card ?" 

"He  wouldn't  give  his  name;  said  he  wanted  to  see 
you  in  private.  He  asked  if  he  could  come  up  here  to 
your  room,  but  the  clerk  told  him  he'd  have  to  wait  down 
there." 

"He  did?  Was  it — the  gentleman  who  was  with  me 
last  night?" 

"No,  sir — not  Mr.  Farnham.  I  know  him.  He's  gone, 
sir." 

"What  sort  of  man  is  this  one?  What  does  he  look 
like?" 

"He's  an  oldish-looking  gentleman,  sir." 

"And  you  say  he  wants  to  come  up  here?  You  see,  I 
haven't  much  time  to  spare.  I  am  to  take  a  train." 

"The  clerk  told  him  that,  sir,  but  he  said  he  must  see 
you  right  off — that  it  was  important." 

"Well,  send  him  up."  Carter  left  the  door  slightly 
ajar,  and  stood  back  in  the  center  of  the  room.  His 
heart  seemed  to  cease  beating.  He  was  quivering  in 
every  limb.  He  knew  that  he  was  pale.  What  was  it 
that  he  feared  all  at  once?  Who  could  the  man  be? 
Why  had  he  refused  to  give  his  name?  Why  did  he 
desire  a  private  interview?  Perhaps  the  visit  concerned 
Lydia.  Was  the  visitor  a  lawyer,  an  officer  from  the 
police  station,  a  detective?  Ah!  perhaps  Mrs.  Romley 
was  not  the  yielding  woman  Thomas  Crofton  had  deemed 
her.  She  might  have  read  the  notice  in  the  paper  of  his 
being  in  New  Orleans,  and  some  friend  or  relative  of  hers 
had  persuaded  her  to  defend  her  daughter's  rights  or  ex 
pose  the  rich  man  who  had  brought  about  her  ruin.  In 
that  case — in  that  case  he  might  have  to — he  might 
have  to — 

The  elevator  stopped  at  that  floor.  A  step  sounded  in 
the  corridor.  "That's  the  room,  sir,"  he  heard  the  bell 
boy  saying.  "He's  inside." 

166 


THE   INNER   LAW 

There  was  a  firm  rap  on  the  door.  Carter  shuddered 
and  drew  himself  up. 

"Come  in,"  he  called  out. 

The  door  opened.  Thomas  Crofton  stood  on  the 
threshold,  his  soft,  broad-brimmed  hat  in  hand.  His 
brow  was  damp  with  dusty  perspiration.  He  advanced 
into  the  room  with  a  slow,  almost  reluctant  step.  In  his 
shadowy,  shifting  eyes  his  nephew  read  a  doubt  as  to 
whether  a  hand-shake  would  be  welcome.  The  old  man's 
hand  was  not  extended;  Carter's  remained  hanging  by 
his  side. 

"You  must  pardon  me  for  coming,"  Thomas  began, 
haltingly,  and  yet  there  was  a  ring  of  far-reaching 
determination  in  his  voice.  "I  hesitated.  I  reflected 
a  long  time  before  making  up  my  mind  to  make  this 
trip." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  came,"  Carter  said,  insincerely, 
not  knowing  what  else  to  say.  He  was  slightly  relieved 
to  find  that  the  visitor  was  his  uncle,  and  yet  he  dreaded 
an  interview  with  him — he  dreaded  what  he  would  now 
be  obliged  to  say  concerning  Lydia. 

"You  see,  you  did  not  write  me  a  line  after  you  left," 
the  old  man  said.  "I  thought  that  was  queer,  after  our 
understanding.  I  thought  you'd  write  surely  after  a  day 
or  so." 

"I  intended  to,  but  was  so  busy  that  I  neglected  it," 
Carter  faltered.  "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

The  old  man  slowly  moved  toward  a  chair.  His  eyes 
fell  on  the  packed  bag  which  lay  open  on  the  table;  they 
lingered  there  a  moment,  then  he  sat  down,  crossing  his 
legs,  placing  his  hat  in  his  lap  and  locking  his  slender 
fingers  under  it. 

"I  see  you  are  ready  to — to  go  somewhere,"  he  ob 
served.  "Home,  I  presume?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Carter  moved  nearer  to  the  window 
and  stood  in  the  fuller  light  of  the  sinking  sun  which  fell 

167 


THE    INNER    LAW 

over  the  dun  roofs  and  smoked  chimneys  of  the  adjoining 
houses. 

"Yes ;  I  am  taking  the  next  train  for  Atlanta." 

"I  see.  Then  you  have — so  far,  you  have  accom 
plished  nothing?" 

"I  have  not  been  able  to  find  them."  Carter  had  no 
sooner  spoken  than  he  felt  that  he  had  been  guilty  of 
cowardly  evasion,  and  yet  he  let  his  words  stand. 

"I  thought  it  might  be  hard  to  find  them  in  such  a 
large  city,"  Thomas  went  on,  "especially  as  they  are, 
no  doubt,  staying  close  indoors  wherever  they  are.  It 
was  because  of  that  that  I  came  down  to  help  you.  I 
happened  to  find  out  from  the  station  agent  at  home  that 
they  did,  after  all,  leave  an  address  to  which  they  wished 
their  things  shipped.  Mrs.  Romley,  it  seems,  begged  him 
not  to  reveal  it,  but  when  I  assured  him  that  I  wished  to 
befriend  a  good  woman  who  had  been  a  faithful  servant 
to  me  he  gave  in.  I  have  the  address  written  down  here." 
Thomas  now  got  up,  took  from  his  coat  pocket  a  slip  of 
paper,  and  extended  it  to  his  nephew. 

Automatically  Carter  took  it  and  read  the  penciled 
words.  His  eyes,  beneath  frowning  brows,  remained 
fixed  upon  them.  His  hand  shook,  and  the  paper,  sud 
denly  released,  fluttered  down  to  the  floor.  He  bent  and 
picked  it  up,  almost  toppling  forward  as  he  did  so.  Why 
could  he  not  be  firm  and  frank  with  this  simple  old  man? 
Why  was  he  making  a  bad  matter  worse  by  this  delay 
and  childish  subterfuge? 

"I've  been  thinking  over  it  all,  uncle,  and — "  he  finally 
began,  but  that  was  as  far  as  he  went. 

"I  was  afraid  you  might  hesitate,"  the  old  man  said, 
quietly,  "and  I  admit  that  was  another  reason  that  I 
had  for  coming.  There  must  be  no  hesitation  in  a  matter 
as  grave  and  all-important  as  this.  My  boy,  my  boy, 
if  you  could  only,  only  understand  the  situation  as  I  do, 
you'd  never  have  delayed  a  minute.  Listen  to  me.  God 

168 


THE   INNER   LAW 

is  giving  you  a  last  chance  to  redeem  yourself  and  remain 
a  man.  That  poor  girl  is  there  at  that  address.  Go  to 
her  now.  Come  with  me.  We'll  go  together." 

"Uncle,  I  can't!" 

"You  can't?" 

"No,  I  can't — I  simply  can't!  I  did  not  know  what  I 
was  doing  when  I  promised  you  what  I  did  that  night. 
For  God's  sake  pity  me — be  reasonable!  Put  yourself 
in  my  place — in  the  place  you  were  in  as  a  young  man. 
You  say  you  had  no  advice.  Even  if  you  had  been 
advised  just  as  you  are  advising  me  you'd  have  been  as 
weak  as  I  am.  I  can't  do  it.  I  simply  can't.  The  cost 
is  too  great.  I  am  not  built  for  the  shame  and  humilia 
tion  that  would  follow." 

"Farnham  was  here  yesterday,"  the  old  man  said,  bit 
terly.  "He  is  your  present  adviser.  You  have  placed 
your  soul  in  the  hands  of  that  adroit  tool  of  Iniquity.  I 
can't  give  you  over  to  the  same  long,  pitiless  remorse  that 
has  been  mine  and  still  is  mine.  It  seems  to  me,  my  boy, 
my  boy  " — the  old  man's  voice  broke,  a  sob  struggled  up  in 
his  dry  throat,  and  tears  sprang  into  his  eyes — "it  seems 
to  me  that  the  very  spirit  of  your  dead  mother,  now  awake 
to  the  meaning  of  the  Great  Mystery  of  the  life  eternal, 
is  pleading  with  me  at  this  moment  to  save  you  from 
actual  crime.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  spirit  of  my  wife 
and  the  spirit  of  my  poor,  wronged  son  are  anxiously 
waiting  for  me  to  influence  you.  Me — me!  It  may  be 
an  insane  idea,  but  the  chance  seems  to  be  given  to  me 
to  gain  pardon  and  peace  through  you.  Only  the  deep-- 
est  suffering  can  give  one  a  knowledge  of  the  infinite  laws 
which  control  the  unseen.  Farnham  is  a  poor,  blind, 
money-seeking  fool.  Material  laws  are  for  the  guidance 
of  the  blind  who  have  to  feel  their  way  from  object  to 
object.  Spiritual  laws  are  for  those  who  see  with  the 
eyes  of  the  soul.  Hell  itself  is  piling  mountains  in  your 
path,  but  you  must  scale  them." 

169 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"It  is  all  well  enough  to  talk,"  the  young  man  said, 
bluntly  defiant.  "I  know  myself  now  better  than  I  did 
when  you  last  spoke  to  me.  I  am  only  a  frail  human  being. 
The  thing  you  demand  of  me  was  not  demanded  of  my 
grandfather  or  of  my  father  for  their  youthful  errors. 
They  lived  their  lives  through  in  some  shape  or  other, 
and  they  were  as — as  guilty  as  I  am.  You  feel  as  you 
do  because  you've  lived  your  life  and  have  nothing  left 
to  lean  upon." 

"Ah,  I  know,  I  know!"  Thomas  lowered  his  head 
and  moaned.  "So  you  won't  do  it — you  won't?" 

"No;  I  can't.  That  is  final.  I  don't  want  to  pain 
you,  but  I  must  refuse.  Please  don't  mention  it  again. 
Please,  please  don't!  I  have  some  rights  left,  and  I  must 
stand  on  them.  I  haven't  the  remorse  you  seem  to  be 
under;  perhaps  I  may  never  have  it." 

"So  you  think  to-day,  my  boy,  but  your  time  will 
come."  The  old  man's  eyes  were  on  the  packed  bag  on 
the  table.  "May  I  ask  what  your  immediate  plans 
are?" 

Reluctantly  and  all  but  coldly  Carter  informed  him 
of  his  decision  to  go  abroad  with  Farnham.  He  noticed 
a  necktie  which  he  had  left  on  the  bureau,  and  he  picked 
it  up,  folded  it  with  undue  care,  and  put  it  into  the  bag. 
He  took  it  out  and  placed  it  beneath  one  of  his  shirts. 
Then  he  began  to  examine  the  straps  and  buckles  on  the 
bag,  and,  taking  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his  pocket,  he  put 
one  of  them  into  the  brass  lock  and  tested  it  by  clicking 
.the  tiny  steel  bolt  back  and  forth. 

"Ah,  you  are  going  to  Europe!"  he  heard  the  old  man 
sigh.  "At  least  I  did  not  have  that  distraction,  nor  the 
means  to  obtain  it.  Besides,  you  remember,  my  mar 
riage  was  approaching.  I  won't  say  anything  against 
your  trip,  since  all  hope  of  the  other  course  is  now  gone. 
You  will  have  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  put  the  poor 
girl  out  of  your  sight.  You  may  in  time  expatriate  your- 

170 


THE    INNER   LAW 

self.  I  will  prophesy  nothing  more  as  to  your  future. 
You  are  in  God's  hands — and  Farnham's.  If  you  don't 
mind  I'll  -go  back  to  Atlanta  with  you.  I'd  like  to  help 
Lydia  and  her  mother  in  some  material  way,  but  they 
would  not  accept  anything.  I  may,  myself,  never  see 
them  again,  and  it  may  be  as  well  for  me  not  to  do  so. 
See?  I'm  shirking,  too.  I  ought  to  stand  by  them  as  a 
near  blood  relation  of  yours,  anyway;  but  I  can  do  noth 
ing.  Mrs.  Romley  appreciates  some  things  I've  done  for 
her,  and  she  is  now  trying  to  save  me  from  embarrassment. 
She  wants  to  bury  her  daughter's  shame  among  total 
strangers.  I  shall  let  her  do  so,  in  her  own  way.  But 
you  have  not  said  whether  my  company  will  be  welcome 
to  you  on  the  train  back?" 

"Of  course  I  want  you,"  Carter  answered,  flushing 
more  deeply.  "How  can  you  put  it  that  way?" 

"Then  I'll  wait  for  you  down-stairs,"  the  old  man 
said. 

Finding  himself  alone  in  the  room,  Carter  sat  down  on 
the  bed.  A  desperate  glare  was  in  his  eyes.  Presently 
he  shuddered. 

"My  God!"  he  cried.  "Uncle  has  given  me  up  in 
despair.  He  was  right,  and  I  am  wrong — wrong — wrong! 
O  God!  how  can  I  leave  her,  never  to  see  her  again?  I 
love  her — I  love  her.  I'll  never  love  any  one  else  on  earth. 
She  was  made  for  me,  and  I  for  her.  My  God!  What 
ails  me?  I  do  not  know  my  own  mind.  I'm  lost.  She'll 
hate  me.  Eventually  she  will  marry  another  man,  and 
he'll  hold  her  in  his  arms;  he'll  kiss  her  lips  and  she'll — 
she'll — "  He  groaned  aloud,  and,  springing  to  his  feet, 
he  closed  his  bag,  took  his  hat,  and  started  for  the  door. 
"What's  the  use?"  he  muttered  in  his  throat.  "There 
is  no  other  way!" 


PART    II 


CHAPTER  I 

ARTER'S  long  life  abroad,  which  had  begun  so  gaily 
in  the  company  of  his  friend  Farnham,  gradually 
lost  its  novelty  as  the  years  passed.  He  finally  settled 
permanently  in  Paris,  where  he  had  a  luxurious  and  artistic 
apartment  in  which  he  entertained  men  and  women  of 
wealth,  talent,  and  distinction.  He  was  always  thinking 
that  he  would  go  back  to  America;  he  was  always  finding, 
when  the  appointed  time  arrived,  that  he  simply  did  not 
want  to  go.  He  had  come  to  think  that  America  was 
hopelessly  crude — in  its  lack  of  art  and  literature,  for  its 
vulgar,  money-getting  passion,  but  above  all  for  its  nar 
row  puritanical  views  of  morality. 

He  failed  in  his  poetic  aspirations.  His  offerings  to 
the  English  and  American  magazines  were  declined  so 
repeatedly  that  he  finally  ceased  to  hope  that  his  work 
would  ever  be  accepted.  At  his  own  expense  he  printed 
a  sumptuous  volume  in  a  limited  edition,  which  he  auto 
graphed  and  distributed  to  personal  friends,  but  there 
was  little  in  this  to  satisfy  the  old  creative  longing,  for 
even  his  friends  had  scant  praise  for  the  book.  He 
could  never  forget  the  reception  it  had  received  from  an 
aged  English  philosopher  to  whom  he  had  presented  it 
after  having  met  and  chatted  with  the  man  at  the  house 
of  a  common  friend. 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  read  all  of  it,"  the  man  said, 
coldly,  "and,  frankly,  I  would  not  finish  it  if  I  could.  It 
seems  to  me  to  have  come  from  a  man  whose  soul  is  dead, 
or  dying.  You  have  tried  in  it  to  glorify  evil.  Great 

175 


THE   INNER   LAW 

poems  come  from  live  souls  full  of  longing  to  comprehend 
the  vast  meaning  of  life,  not  out  of  vain,  blustering  denial 
of  all  that  is  good.  Pardon  me,  but  your  book  is  an  in 
sult  to  my  intelligence  and  ideas  of  ordinary  decency.'* 

So  after  that  venture  he  wrote  no  more.  In  the  be 
ginning  of  his  life  abroad  he  had  sought  artistic  and 
literary  companionship,  but  now  he  began  to  shun  it. 
No  successful  book  or  poem  wholly  pleased  him.  That 
the  public  liked  a  thing  proved  its  inherent  weakness. 
The  modern  decadent  writers,  essayists,  and  poets  pleased 
him  best,  but  he  shunned  personal  contact  with  them 
because  of  their  failure  to  recognize  him  as  one  of  them. 

He  next  busied  himself  with  fads.  He  made  collections 
of  curios  and  editions  of  rare  books.  At  one  time,  while 
living  in  London,  he  took  up  the  study  of  the  genealogy 
of  his  family.  He  conceived  the  idea  that  the  first  Crof- 
ton  to  settle  in  Virginia  was  a  younger  son  of  an  English 
earl.  Two  years  were  spent  in  this  vapid  research,  during 
which  time  he  associated  by  choice  with  men  and  women 
of  title  or  of  ancient  lineage.  He  had  the  means  to  enter 
tain  such  people  lavishly,  and  a  few  noblemen  who  were 
broken  down  in  fortune  hung  around  him.  There  was 
an  ancient  family  by  his  own  name  living  in  Devonshire, 
in  a  fine  old  mansion  which  had  been  owned  by  a  certain 
branch  of  the  Crofton  family  over  four  hundred  years. 
It  pleased  him  to  claim  without  proof  of  any  sort  that 
his  own  direct  ancestors  had  lived  there,  and  that  the 
family  coat  of  arms  was  also  his.  He  sought  an  invita 
tion  to  the  house,  by  an  adroit  letter  addressed  to  the 
gentleman  who  had  inherited  the  estate,  in  which  he 
spoke  of  the  strong  likelihood  of  his  relationship,  only  to 
get  in  return  a  coldly  polite  and  evasive  note.  This  did 
not  deter  him,  however,  from  claiming  the  relationship, 
and  he  spoke  of  it  to  his  friends  on  all  occasions.  He  was 
fond  of  refuting  the  charge  that  there  were  no  persons 
of  gentle  birth  in  the  United  States.  Younger  sons  even 

176 


THE    INNER   LAW 

of  royal  descent  had  settled  in  Virginia,  as  had  his  own 
ancestor.  Of  course,  there  had  been  settlers  of  the  lowest 
order,  convicts,  and  the  like,  and  it  behooved  every  Amer 
ican  gentleman  to  establish  his  rights  in  justice  to  his 
posterity.  For  this  reason  he  got  together  the  material 
for  a  book  which  he  published  under  the  title  of  The 
Croftons  of  England  and  Virginia.  There  was  no  sale 
for  the  work,  but  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  having  it 
accepted  by  the  genealogical  departments  of  several  public 
libraries  in  England  and  America. 

When  he  reached  the  age  of  forty  he  began  to  think 
seriously  of  marriage,  late  as  it  was.  There  was  some 
unconquerable  instinct  within  him  which  was  constant 
ly  crying  out  for  fatherhood.  He  wanted  children,  es 
pecially  a  son  to  bear  his  name.  The  sight  of  younger 
men  than  himself  in  the  company  of  their  wives  and 
children  rebuked  him  constantly.  Something  kept  whis 
pering  to  him  that  it  was  his  own  misspent  early  life 
that  had  robbed  him  and  was  still  robbing  him  of  this 
natural  joy,  as  well  as  the  love  and  sympathy  of  a  good 
wife.  These  reflections  finally  became  almost  a  mono 
mania  with  him.  He  had  the  means  with  which  to  bring 
up  a  family  and  own  an  establishment  in  approved  style, 
and  he  must  set  about  the  matter  in  proper  form  and 
without  delay.  He  had  not  forgotten  Lydia.  Indeed, 
that  beautiful  first  love  of  his  was  almost  constantly 
in  his  thoughts.  He  was  always  comparing  other  women 
with  her;  he  was  always  wondering  how  time  had  served 
her,  or,  indeed,  if  she  were  still  alive.  But  those  memories 
were  too  painful  to  be  entertained,  and  he  began  deliber 
ately  to  try  to  banish  them. 

He  had  met  a  young  lady,  Miss  Edith  Caruthers,  an 
orphan  daughter  of  an  English  gentleman  who  had  died 
in  poverty.  She  was  living  in  Paris,  where  she  was1 
teaching  English  to  the  children  of  a  wealthy  French 
Academician,  in  whose  drawing-rooms  Crofton  had  met 

12  177 


THE    INNER    LAW 

her.  He  called  upon  her  many  times.  She  seemed  to 
like  him,  their  tastes  were  similar,  and  the  thought  of 
marrying  her  took  hold  of  him  and  grew  day  by  day. 
She  had  a  brother,  who  was  without  any  fortune  and  was, 
in  fact,  only  a  clerk  in  a  London  bank,  still  his  name  and 
his  sister's  were  recorded  in  Burke's  Landed  Gentry,  and 
there  was  a  possibility  of  his  coming  into  a  great  landed 
property,  so  Crofton  told  himself  that  a  wife  of  that  sort 
would  be  very  suitable,  and  such  a  sensible  marriage 
on  his  part  would  show  all  his  friends  that  he  was  by  no 
means  a  fortune-hunter. 

Notwithstanding  these  things,  however,  he  hesitated 
many  months.  Why  he  could  not  ask  her  to  marry  him 
and  be  done  with  it  became  a  psychological  problem  to 
him  which  caused  him  much  uneasiness.  His  reason  told 
him  that  a  poor  girl  who  was  earning  her  own  living  as 
Edith  was  doing  would  not  be  apt  to  decline  his  proposal, 
and  yet  he  was  afraid  to  declare  himself.  She  was  about 
twenty-seven  years  of  age,  and  was  not  considered  good- 
looking;  in  fact,  her  features  were  rather  plain,  and  she 
bore  herself  somewhat  too  stiffly  to  be  graceful,  but  she 
was  very  intelligent,  well-informed,  well-educated,  and, 
above  all,  well-bred.  She  spoke  French  and  German 
fluently,  and  had  a  fine  taste  for  the  best  in  literature, 
music,  and  art.  She  seemed  to  have  faith  in  his  own 
creative  ability,  and  more  than  once  had  urged  him  to 
resume  his  literary  efforts.  He  often  caught  himself  ob 
serving  her  when  she  was  with  others.  He  admired  the 
ease  and  skill  with  which  she  handled  the  most  distin 
guished  of  men.  At  such  times  he  was  fond  of  picturing 
her  as  the  mistress  of  his  home,  and  he  would  actually 
glow  with  the  warm  sense  of  prospective  ownership. 

Still  he  delayed  his  proposal.  More  than  once  he  set 
out  to  spend  an  evening  with  her,  sure  that  he  would  de 
clare  himself  before  leaving  her,  only  to  come  away  with 
out  doing  so.  During  this  period  of  indecision  his  old 

178 


THE    INNER   LAW 

habit  of  rigid  self-analysis  settled  on  him  more  firmly 
than  ever  before.  He  wondered — and  this  may  have 
been  due  simply  to  an  outraged  conscience — if  he  had 
not,  by  that  first  great  sin  of  his,  by  his  manner  of  living 
since  it  was  committed  —  killed  within  himself  the  ca 
pability  of  loving  and  respecting  a  wife  as  a  man  should 
love  and  respect  the  one  woman  among  all  women  who 
was  to  be  his  life  companion,  the  mother  of  his  children. 
He  was  honest  enough  to  admit  that  the  fault  was  wholly 
of  his  own  making. 

About  this  time  something  occurred  which  drove  him 
closer  to  the  point  of  actual  decision  than  anything  else 
had  done.  Miss  Caruthers  was  given  a  month's  vaca 
tion,  and  she  decided  to  spend  it,  the  summer  being  at 
hand,  in  Geneva  at  a  little  pension  where  she  had  lived 
once  before.  She  made  no  mention  to  him  of  her  inten 
tion  to  go,  and  it  was  only  by  his  calling  at  her  Paris 
home  that  he  discovered  her  absence  and  secured  her  ad 
dress.  He  thought  he  understood  her  failure  to  inform 
him  of  her  movements,  and  he  liked  the  subtle  and 
novel  sense  of  pursuit  which  came  to  him  with  the  deter 
mination  to  follow  her. 

She  was  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  man  who 
was  well-to-do  financially,  and  once  or  twice  he  had  fancied 
that  she  was  a  little  sensitive  of  her  own  shortcomings 
in  that  respect  while  receiving  such  marked  attentions 
from  him,  and  this  he  liked. 

He  went  to  Geneva  on  a  night  train,  arriving  at  about 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  There  was  an  invigorating 
quality  in  the  crisp,  cool  air,  and  as  he  drove  to  his  hotel 
in  a  cab  through  the  quaint  streets  of  the  town  he  had  his 
first  view  of  Mount  Blanc  beyond  the  hills  in  the  far  dis 
tance.  One  of  his  most  hopeful  moods  was  on  him.  He 
was  satisfied  that  he  loved  her  as  much  as  he  was  capable 
of  loving  any  woman — that  he  was  experiencing  at  least 
a  rebirth  of  the  romantic  feeling  he  had  had  several  times 

179 


THE    INNER   LAW 

before,  yet  in  diminishing  force  as  his  various  feminine 
fancies  had  come  and  gone. 

"At  last,  at  last,"  he  kept  saying,  without  knowing 
that  he  was  only  fighting  rising  doubts  and  fears — "at  last 
I  am  to  be  happily  married.  Ill  be  proud  of  her.  What 
man  could  help  it  ?  Fate  has  reserved  her  for  me.  Here, 
in  this  beautiful  spot,  on  that  blue  lake — perhaps  this 
very  evening,  I'll  ask  her  to  be  my  wife.  She  will  consent ; 
yes,  she'll  consent." 

That  morning  he  sent  her  a  message.  '  *  Dearest  Edith, ' ' 
he  wrote,  "you  see  I've  followed  you.  Paris  was  insup 
portable  after  I  discovered  that  my  one  dear  friend  had 
left.  When  may  I  call?" 

As  he  sealed  the  note  he  asked  himself,  with  a  qualm 
of  self-suspicion:  "Why  did  I  begin  so  naturally,  so 
warmly,  and  yet  use  such  an  equivocal  term  as  'dear 
friend'?  Do  I  really  know  myself?  What  is  wrong  with 
me,  anyway?  What  has  ailed  me  all  along?  Am  I  sane? 
Did  any  other  living  man  ever  at  once  want  to  marry  a 
woman  and  be  afraid  to  do  so  ?  Why  am  I  always  think 
ing  of  my  uncle,  of  his  morbid  prophecy,  and  of  Lydia? 
Do  I  still  love  her?  I  must  do  so,  or  why  can't  I  forget 
her?  My  uncle  must  have  left  a  sort  of  hypnotic  sugges 
tion  on  me  of  which  I  am  unable  to  rid  myself.  He  was 
afraid  things  would  go  wrong  with  me,  as  they  had  with 
him.  Will  this  marriage  prove  disastrous,  as  his  was? 
Is  this  a  trap  through  which  I  am  to  receive  what  he 
would  call  retribution?  Am  I  actually  losing  my  mind? 
If  not,  why  can't  I  form  a  positive  decision  and  abide 
by  it?  Why  am  I  wavering  like  this?  Why  am  I  sure 
at  one  moment  that  I  ought  to  do  this  thing,  and  the 
next  that  I  ought  not?" 

The  note  he  received  in  response  to  his  was,  he  thought, 
unduly  cold,  and  yet  its  very  coldness  pleased  him,  for 
he  liked  to  feel  that  she  was  modestly  avoiding  him.  He 
could  come  in  any  afternoon  after  three,  she  said,  and 

180 


THE   INNER   LAW 

that  was  all.  He  decided  to  call  that  very  afternoon. 
Why  should  he  wait?  They  were  both  there  among 
strangers.  What  more  natural  than  that  they  should  be 
company  for  each  other? 

He  spent  the  afternoon  with  her  in  the  simple  salon  of 
the  pension  kept  by  an  old  German  and  his  wife  on  the 
third  floor  of  an  apartment-house  in  the  Quai  des  Eaux- 
Vives. 

When  the  sun  was  almost  down  they  took  their  chairs 
to  the  little  balcony  which  overlooked  the  lake  above 
the  fine  trees  which  shaded  the  long  water-front.  He 
was  elated,  happy,  but  he  left  her  without  declaring  his 
intentions.  He  returned  that  evening  with  a  bouquet 
of  white  roses  which  he  had  bought  of  a  pretty  Swiss  girl 
at  a  flower-shop  in  the  market-place.  The  girl  had  at 
tracted  him  by  her  youthful  charm  and  vivaciousness, 
and  strongly  reminded  him  of  many  flirtations  he  had  had 
with  such  persons  in  various  places.  He  told  himself  that 
all  such  frivolities  must  now  be  over.  He  would  become 
the  model  husband  that  such  a  sterling  woman  as  Edith 
Caruthers  deserved.  He  would  respect  her  too  much 
to  deceive  her  in  the  slightest  thing. 

Again  she  met  him  still  behind  the  inexplicable  veil  of 
reserve  which  had  been  so  noticeable  in  the  afternoon. 
She  placed  the  roses  in  a  vase  on  the  center-table  of  the 
salon,  and  thanked  him  almost  formally.  There  hap 
pened  to  be  no  other  boarders  at  the  pension,  and  again 
they  had  the  balcony  to  themselves.  There  was  music 
in  the  Jardin  Anglais,  the  lights  of  which  could  be  seen 
at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  gay  singing  in  a  caf6  chantant 
near  by.  The  colored  lights  of  excursion  steamboats 
and  smaller  pleasure  craft  shone  here  and  there  on  the 
surface  of  the  lake.  Near  the  shore  a  tall  fountain  be 
gan  to  play,  the  jet  and  spray  of  which  were  illuminated 
by  constantly  changing  colors.  A  soothing,  restful  spell 
was  on  him.  Every  minute  he  was  sure  that  the  next 

181 


THE    INNER   LAW 

would  lead  him  to  the  subject  that  had  brought  him  to 
Geneva,  and  yet  the  minutes  passed  into  hours  and  he 
had  not  yet  spoken  the  fateful  words.  It  was  late,  she 
playfully  told  him  finally,  and  he  must  go.  He  was  em 
boldened  by  this,  slight  as  it  was.  He  smiled  and  laughed 
defiantly. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  came  to  Geneva?"  he  asked. 

She  glanced  at  him  in  a  startled  way,  then  avoided  his 
eyes,  making  no  answer. 

He  repeated  his  question,  leaning  toward  her,  and 
taking  her  hand.  She  allowed  him  to  hold  it  for  a  bare 
instant,  then  gently  drew  it  away.  Her  face  held  a 
gravity  he  had  never  seen  on  it  before. 

"I  think  I  do,  perhaps,"  she  said,  still  looking  away 
from  him. 

"I  came  because  I  could  not  exist  without  your  com 
panionship,"  he  heard  himself  saying.  "Edith,  I'm  the 
loneliest  man  on  earth.  I  have  everything  and  nothing. 
I'm  tired  of  everything  in  life  but  you.  I  was  at  the 
point  of  suicide  from  sheer  ennui  when  I  met  you  and 
began  to  hope  that  you  would  change  it  all.  I  came 
here  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

He  heard  her  sigh.  She  still  kept  her  face  averted. 
"I  thought  so,"  she  almost  whispered.  "I  could  see  no 
other  reason  for  your  following  me." 

Silence  fell  between  them — a  silence  that  bore  down  on 
him,  perplexed,  alarmed,  depressed  him.  Why  had  she 
answered  in  that  way?  Thousands  of  fears,  memories, 
visions  of  faces,  past  forebodings,  flashed  before  him.  He 
broke  the  silence.  Leaning  forward,  he  tried  to  take  her 
hand  again,  but  she  thrust  it  beneath  the  light  lace  wrap 
about  her  shoulders,  sat  erect  in  her  chair,  and  sighed 
again. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  faltered.  "Are  you  not 
going  to  give  me  my  answer?" 

He  plainly  saw  her  shudder.  She  gave  him  a  swift 

182 


THE   INNER   LAW 

passing  scrutiny,  and  then  her  profile  was  all  he  could  see 
of  her  rigid  face. 

"  There  is  something  you  should  know  before  making 
such  a  proposal,"  she  muttered,  clearing  her  voice  and 
trying  to  speak  steadily.  "I've  been  afraid  you'd  come 
to  me  like  this,  and —  I  didn't  openly  encourage  you, 
Carter,  did  I?  Really,  did  I?" 

"No!"  he  gasped,  now  clutched  by  certain  intangible 
fears  which  could  have  found  root  in  no  other  brain  than 
his.  "What— what  is  it,  Edith?" 

"There  is  something  you  should  know  about — me, 
about  an  early  love-affair  of  mine,"  she  went  on,  still  in 
low,  halting  tones.  "There  are  men — Englishmen,  at 
least — to  whom.  I'd  not  feel  obligated  to  say  this,  but  cer 
tain  remarks  you  have  made  on  various  occasions  make 
me  feel  that — that  I  ought  not  to  be  your  wife  without 
making  a  complete  revelation  of — of  my  whole  life." 

Therewith,  and  gaining  a  grim  sort  of  courage  as  she 
proceeded,  she  told  him  of  her  love  as  a  girl  for  a  certain 
young  English  officer,  a  most  unhappily  married  man 
for  whom  she  had  had  great  sympathy,  and  who  had 
died  shortly  afterward. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked,  in  great  relief.  "Surely  you 
are  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  molehill.  I  could  hardly 
expect  to  meet  a  girl  anywhere  who  has  not  had  some 
sort  of  fancy  or  other.  I  am  not  the  only  man  in  the 
world." 

"You  must  understand  me  fully,11  she  said,  her  lips 
pressed  tightly  together,  her  fine  face  pale  and  rigid  as 
stone. 

"Fully — oh,  you  can't  mean — ?"  he  went  no  further, 
for  she  had  risen  and  was  moving  toward  the  salon. 

"Yes,  I  mean  that"  she  answered.  "For  ten  years 
I've  both  regretted  it  and  been  proud  of  it.  Before  God 
I  regarded  him  as  my  husband.  I  know  my  own  worth, 
and  I  could  not  marry  a  man  who  failed  to  understand 

183 


THE    INNER    LAW 

my  act,  and  me  as  well.  I  am  lonely,  too.  I  know  the 
manner  of  life  you  have  led,  and  the  contemplation  of  it 
in  a  man  whom  I  admire  for  many  good  qualities  has 
sickened  me  at  heart,  and  yet  I  feel  that  I  can  help  you 
as  you  can  help  me.  I  feel  that  you  are  now  inclined 
toward  better  things.  You  have  reached  the  point  in 
life  where  a  turning  must  be  made.  I  know  that  I  can 
help  you,  but  not  if  you  doubt  me  for  one  instant  or  hold 
against  me  the  fault  I  am  voluntarily  confessing." 

He  was  pale,  cold  from  head  to  foot,  and  quivering  in 
every  limb.  He  started  to  speak — to  say  he  knew  not 
what  in  his  awful  perturbation,  but  she  checked  him  with 
a  quick,  firm  wave  of  the  hand. 

"Not  a  word  now.  You  must — you,  of  all  men,  Car 
ter,  must  think  this  over.  You  are  a  vacillating  man,  and 
I  will  not  have  you  decide  under  an  impulse.  Come  to 
see  me  Thursday  evening — this  is  Tuesday.  Come  then 
and  let  me  know  how  you  feel  about  it.  Now,  good  night, 
Yes,  yes,  I  insist  upon  it — good  night." 

He  was  trying  feebly  to  detain  her,  but  she  passed  into 
the  salon,  walked  swiftly  through  it,  and  disappeared  in 
the  direction  of  her  bedchamber. 

He  took  his  hat  from  the  piano  and  went  down  the 
stairs  to  the  street.  He  was  unconscious  of  the  existence 
of  his  material  body.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  sim 
ply  an  entity  of  mind  and  soul  blown  along  by  the  surg 
ing  winds  of  sheer  chaos.  He  was  stunned,  shocked, 
bewildered.  He  passed  the  cafe  chantant  where  merry 
makers  at  little  tables  on  the  sidewalk  were  tinkling  their 
glasses  and  shouting,  and  went  on  into  the  Jardin  Anglais. 
He  found  a  seat  in  a  retired  spot  and  sank  into  it,  but  he 
was  too  restless  to  bear  the  inactivity  of  sitting  still,  so 
he  went  out  of  the  garden  and  crossed  the  bridge  over  the 
Rh6ne  to  his  hotel 


CHAPTER  II 

ALONE  in  his  room,  he  began  to  prepare  for  bed,  but 
-T\  as  he  doffed  his  garments  one  by  one,  threw  himself 
down,  and  saw  his  stark  limbs  against  the  white  sheets, 
the  gruesome  picture  came  to  him  of  an  undertaker  dress 
ing  his  body  for  burial.  What  was  left  for  him  now?  It 
was  wise  of  Edith  Caruthers  to  dismiss  him  with  the  prob 
lem  to  solve.  The  horror  which  was  sucking  the  life- 
blood  from  the  veins  of  his  scant  manhood  would  have 
been  visible  to  her  in  another  moment,  and  she  would 
have  despised  him  as  she  would  have  done  already  had 
she  known  him  as  he  was. 

Two  days  to  decide  a  thing  of  that  sort!  It  would 
take  a  lifetime  for  a  man  of  his  stamp,  a  man  rendered 
incapable  of  justice  by  a  thousand  unjust  deeds.  He 
extinguished  the  gas,  groaned  aloud,  and  lay  with  his 
eyes  open  in  the  dark.  His  uncle's  grim  experiences  and 
warnings  came  to  him,  as  they  had  through  all  the  years 
of  his  expatriation,  but  never  with  such  sinister  force  as 
now.  He  had  gone  through  that  spiritual  struggle  in 
New  Orleans  and  refused  to  take  the  course  advised  by 
a  man  beaten  to  earth  by  conscience.  That  sin  against 
poor  Lydia  was  irretrievable,  but  should  he  take  an  un 
fair  course  again?  Was  not  this  opportunity  laid  upon 
him  by  God  Himself? 

"Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who 
trespass  against  us,"  he  quoted.  How  could  he  expect  the 
longed-for  content  and  peace  if  he  held  the  rod  of  con 
demnation  over  the  gentle  woman  who  had  so  frankly 


THE   INNER   LAW 

revealed  the  one  mistake  of  her  life,  which  was  pardon 
able  if  the  smallest  of  his  deeds  was  pardonable?  He 
told  himself  that  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to 
overlook  it,  forget  it,  and  he  would;  yes,  he  would!  He 
would  hasten  to  her  in  the  morning  and  laugh  about  the 
whole  matter.  They  would  be  married  and  be  happy. 
With  this  thought  he  grew  calmer,  and  finally  dropped 
to  sleep. 

He  waked  the  next  morning  with  a  headache.  His 
mouth  had  a  disagreeable  taste,  as  if  his  food  had  not 
properly  digested.  He  rang  for  his  breakfast  to  be 
brought;  but  when  it  came  and  was  put  on  the  table  by 
his  bed,  he  had  little  appetite  for  it.  He  began  to  dress 
for  his  visit  to  Edith.  But  why,  he  asked  himself,  was 
he  still  so  cheerless,  so  despondent?  Did  ever  a  man 
go  to  see  the  woman  he  was  to  marry  in  such  an  incon 
gruous  mood?  He  was  wealthy;  he  was  not  hopelessly 
old;  women  by  the  hundreds  could  be  met  who  would 
accept  him  as  a  husband;  he  was  not  even  in  love,  actual 
ly,  passionately  in  love,  and  yet  he  was  about  to  select 
a  fallen  woman  for  his  bride.  A  fallen  woman!  How 
preposterous !  How  far  from  his  long-pursued  ideal !  And 
yet  how,  under  the  laws  of  the  universe,  was  it  to  be 
avoided  if  his  soul  was  to  be  freed  from  its  self-welded, 
time-strengthened  shackles  ? 

Yes,  he  must  take  a  just  course,  now.  He  must  do 
the  manly  thing.  He  would  go  to  Edith  at  once.  He 
would  laugh  her  fears  to  scorn.  He  would  promise  never 
to  think  of  the  thing  which  disturbed  her.  Never  think 
of  it?  Would  that  be  possible  in  his  case?  Could  a  man 
whose  life  had  been  steeped  in  lust  condone  even  a 
touch  of  it  in  the  woman  who  was  to  be  his  wife?  Should 
two  persons  of  that  ilk  bind  themselves  together  for  life? 
Could  Satan  devise  a  rarer  comedy  for  the  delectation  of 
his  gibing  imps?  Two  criminals  of  opposite  sexes  on 
a  holy  nuptial  bed!  Merciful  God!  Thomas  Crof  ton's 

186 


THE    INNER   LAW 

morbid  prediction  was  more  than  coming  true.  Remorse, 
as  well  as  the  unconquerable  tendency  to  evil,  was  the 
living  lees  of  the  Crofton  blood.  But  something  must  be 
done,  and  what?  Ah,  she  had  given  him  till  Thursday 
to  think  it  over.  He  would  wait;  yes,  that  was  wise  of 
her.  She  had,  no  doubt,  thought  of  all  these  things.  Per 
haps  her  confession  had  come  about  through  her  own 
remorse,  and  was  a  supreme  effort  to  obtain  divine  for 
giveness.  She  had  intimated  that  she  was  not  to  blame, 
but  she  may  have  been  to  blame.  She  may  deliberately 
have  tempted  the  unfortunate  man,  now  dead.  Of 
course  she  had  not  confessed  all — not  quite  all.  What  dis 
creet  woman  would?  Still,  he  must  not  judge  her  if  he 
would  not  be  judged,  and  the  judgment  upon  him  had 
penetrated  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones. 

He  left  the  hotel,  and,  crossing  the  bridge  to  the  excur 
sion-steamboat  landing,  he  took  a  ticket  and  went  aboard. 
The  boat  was  to  make  a  circuit  of  the  lake.  Perhaps  the 
trip  would  divert  his  mind.  But  he  found  this  to  be  a 
vain  hope.  The  passengers  in  their  merriment,  the 
placid  Italian  musicians  in  their  quaint  costumes,  ac 
tually  irritated  him.  So  when  a  landing  was  made  at 
Lausanne,  for  a  short  stop,  he  left  the  boat  and,  going 
into  the  town,  he  wandered  about  aimlessly,  now  among 
the  peasants  offering  their  wares  in  the  market-place, 
again  in  the  streets,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing  but  the 
terrible  groaning  of  his  vacillating  purpose.  He  told 
himself  that  if  only  he  could  have  the  advice  of  some  one — 
any  one,  friend  or  stranger — he  might  be  able  to  act  upon 
it,  for  he  had  completely  lost  control  of  his  own  reasoning 
powers.  He  was  an  infant  in  the  knowledge  of  good 
things,  and  it  was  a  good  thing  which  he  was  to  do  or 
leave  undone. 

Coming  from  a  church  he  saw  a  priest.  He  was  an  old, 
gray-haired  man  with  a  calm,  fatherly  face  and  gentle, 
portly  mien.  Crofton  looked  at  him  wistfully,  doffed  his 

187 


THE   INNER  LAW 

hat,  and  bowed.  The  priest  smiled  benevolently  and 
was  about  to  pass  on,  but  Carter,  obeying  a  sudden  im 
pulse,  extended  his  hand.  The  priest  took  it  and  pressed 
it  cordially. 

"I've  met  you  before?"  he  said,  half  tentatively,  in 
French.  "My  eyesight  is  getting  bad.  I  no  longer  re 
member  faces  as  I  once  did." 

"I  am  a  stranger,  Father,  an  American,"  Crofton  re 
sponded.  "I  am  quite  alone,  trying  to  pass  a  few  days 
in  Geneva.  I  come  of  a  Protestant  family,  but  am  my 
self  a  member  of  no  church.  I  am  ignorant  of  the  cus 
toms  of  your  calling,  but  I  couldn't,  somehow,  let  you 
go  by.  Frankly,  Father,  I  am  in  trouble — great  trouble." 

"Ah,  I'm  sorry!"  the  priest  said.  "May  I  ask  if  it  is 
of  a  financial  nature?" 

"No,  it  is  wholly  mental — in  fact,  spiritual.  I  am 
afraid — I'm  almost  afraid,  Father,  that  I  am  quite  in 
capable  of  making  a  decision  between  two  opposite  courses, 
and  it  happens  that  a  decision  must  be  made  at  once.  I 
have  heard  that  confidences  are  held  sacred  by  your  order, 
and — and  I  am  almost  desperate." 

"Ah,  I  see,  I  see!"  They  had  come  to  a  little  house  in 
a  simple  garden  surrounded  by  a  stone  wall.  "  My  rooms 
are  here,"  the  priest  said.  "Will  you  come  in?" 

Carter  accepted,  passing  through  the  gate,  a  far- 
reaching  sense  of  relief  settling  on  him.  The  priest  un 
locked  the  door  and  led  him  into  a  cozy  study,  the  walls 
of  which  were  lined  with  books  and  pictures. 

"Pray  be  seated,"  he  said;  and  when  the  visitor  had 
taken  a  chair  the  priest  filled  a  glass  with  wine  from  a 
decanter  and  proffered  it  on  a  quaint  little  tray  of  carved 
copper. 

Crofton  drank  it,  thanked  the  priest,  and  fairly  fed 
upon  his  benign  countenance.  "It  is  queer,  Father,"  he 
began,  tremulously,  "that  I  should  have  stopped  you. 
I've  never  done  such  a  thing  before — never,  never  before." 

188 


THE    INNER    LAW 

"It  happens  to  me  almost  every  day/'  the  priest  smiled. 
"Oh,  the  world  is  so  full  of  sorrow!  Even  our  saints, 
our  Lord  Himself,  suffered  to  the  last.  Why  shouldn't 
you — why  shouldn't  I?  Your  face  shows  that  you  are 
not  at  peace.  You  would  not  need  me  if  you  were.  You 
need  not  come  to  me,  but  you  ought  to  go  to  God. 
God  alone  can  aid  you." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course;  but  may  I  tell  you  my  trouble?" 
Crofton  faltered,  most  anxiously.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  the 
whole  thing.  Somehow  I  feel  impelled  to  do  it." 

The  priest  nodded.  He  lowered  his  head  to  his  delicate 
white  hand,  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  moved  mutely. 
Crofton  remained  silent  till  the  priest  raised  his  head, 
then  he  told  him  the  story  of  his  life. 

"Ah,  ah!  sad,  sad!"  the  good  man  kept  exclaiming  as 
the  account  was  being  given,  and  when  it  was  finally  con 
cluded  he  lowered  his  head  to  his  hand  again.  There  was 
silence  for  several  minutes ;  then  he  said,  looking  straight 
and  sympathetically  at  his  visitor: 

"It  is  a  grave  situation,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
are  pursuing  a  wrong  course.  If  the  thing  that  you  want 
to  do  were  in  accordance  with  the  infinite  law  of  spiritual 
harmony  you  would  not  be  in  such  doubt  as  you  are  now 
in.  To  be  frank  with  you,  the  reason  you  have  for  de 
siring  this  marriage  is  fundamentally  a  selfish  one.  You 
are  trying  to  convince  yourself  that  you  can  right  a  ter 
rible  wrong  done  to  one  person  by  avoiding  the  doing  of 
a  slight  one  to  another.  You  are  thinking  of  your  own 
comfort  solely — your  own  salvation.  If  the  lady  you 
wish  to  marry  is  suffering  for  her  act,  it  is  God's  will 
that  she  should  so  suffer,  and  you  likewise.  The  way  to 
the  Kingdom  is  not  through  social  and  material  ease,  but 
through  self-abnegation,  pain,  and  even  agony.  You 
are  a  beautiful  sight  to  me,  for  you  are  groveling  in 
spiritual  darkness  out  of  which  you  are  sure  to  rise — 
not  at  once,  perhaps,  for  you  have  not  yet  suffered  enough. 

189 


THE    INNER    LAW 

Now  you  must  leave  me.  I've  said  all  I  can  say.  God 
bless  you,  my  son." 

Crofton  returned  to  Geneva  by  the  next  boat.  As  he 
sat  on  the  deck  in  the  gentle,  crisp  breeze  from  the  icy 
Alps  he  was  wondering  what  he  would  say  to  Edith 
Caruthers.  He  couldn't  tell  her  of  the  priest's  advice, 
for  he  was  not  willing  to  admit  his  weakness  in  seeking  it. 
To-morrow  she  would  be  expecting  him.  He  would  wait 
till  then  to  decide  what  course  to  pursue,  and  at  the  last 
moment  perhaps  he  would  act  upon  whatever  impulse 
came  to  him. 

When  he  arrived  at  his  hotel,  a  porter  gave  him  a  note. 
It  was  addressed  in  the  handwriting  of  Edith  Caruthers 
and  had  come  that  morning.  He  opened  it  nervously. 
It  ran  as  follows: 

"I  am  leaving  Geneva.  It  should  make  no  difference 
to  you  where  I  am  going.  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  you 
again.  This  must  be  final.  If  you  had  refused  to  let 
me  leave  you  last  night  because  of  your  faith  in  me  it 
might  have  been  different,  but  intuitively  I  read  your 
mind  and  know  exactly  what  you  think.  Good-by." 

It  was  an  odd  psychological  thing,  but  as  he  put  the 
note  into  his  pocket  he  was  conscious  of  a  throbbing  sense 
of  relief,  and  as  he  lighted  a  cigar  and  began  to  smoke 
he  planned  his  return  to  Paris.  Surely  he  would  find 
something  there  to  divert  him,  some  new  face  or  fresh 
emotion  which  would  help  him  to  forget  what  had  hap 
pened.  One  thing,  however,  rankled,  and  that  was  the 
contempt  he  knew  that  Edith  Caruthers  had  for  him. 


PART    III 


CHAPTER  I 

/BARTER  CROFTON,  five  years  older  than  when  we 
\<^t  last  met  him  in  Geneva,  was  returning  to  America. 
The  steamer,  after  six  days  of  pleasant  sailing,  was 
within  sight  of  New  York.  Eager  homesick  voyagers 
were  leaning  on  the  railings  and  pointing  out  certain 
recognizable  objects  in  the  sky-line,  the  whole  of  which 
was  new  to  Carter.  The  stewards  were  hurrying  to  and 
fro,  piling  up  luggage  for  prompt  handling  at  the  pier. 
The  pilot  had  come  aboard.  The  custom-house  agents 
were  finishing  their  work  of  taking  declarations  in  the 
great  salon.  Men  and  women  who  had  been  seen  only 
in  deck  costumes  lounging  beneath  rugs  in  steamer-chairs 
appeared  strange  to  one  another  in  street  hats  and  cloth 
ing.  It  was  in  the  early  part  of  June,  and  the  afternoon 
was  warm. 

Carter  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  no  one  during  the 
voyage,  and  stood  on  the  deck  alone,  viewing  with  a  de 
spondent  stare,  now  the  nearing  shore,  again  the  elated 
passengers  around  him.  He  had  turned  quite  gray;  his 
skin  had  a  dingy,  bloodless  look.  Some  of  his  teeth  had 
disappeared  and  artificial  ones  held  by  caps  of  gold  on 
roots  and  snags  had  taken  their  places.  There  were 
wrinkles  in  his  sunken  cheeks  and  around  his  eyes.  He 
had  touches  of  rheumatism  at  times,  which  his  doctor 
had  said  came  from  the  things  he  ate  and  drank.  He 
tried  to  take  an  interest  in  the  aspect  of  the  long  water 
front,  but  couldn't  do  so.  It  all  seemed  an  evidence  of 
useless  and  hasty  productivity  at  the  cost  of  national  re 
finement  and  artistic  growth. 

13  193 


THE   INNER   LAW 

What  he  would  do  when  he  left  the  ship  he  did  not 
know  nor  care.  The  sight  of  his  fellow-passengers  waving 
their  hats  and  handkerchiefs  at  the  mass  of  expectant 
humanity  gathered  on  the  pier  sickened  him  at  heart,  as 
the  thought  struck  him  that  no  one  would  be  there  to 
meet  him.  He  was  a  man  without  a  country,  without  a 
true  friend.  He  had  neglected  his  correspondence  with 
his  family,  and  had  lived  in  all  the  countries  of  Europe 
a  solitary  life  in  hotels  and  in  chambers  to  which  few 
outsiders  were  admitted. 

He  fancied  that  he  would  remain  a  month  or  so  in  New 
York,  and  then  go  to  Atlanta;  but  there  was  nothing  in 
viting  in  either  prospect.  In  the  latter  place  he  would 
have  to  shake  hands  with  people  who  had  known  him 
as  a  young  man,  and  be  entertained  in  their  homes  in 
the  old  way,  and  this  was  anything  but  welcome.  He 
fancied  he  would  like  New  York  better,  for  there  he  could 
live  as  privately  as  he  wished. 

He  remained  on  deck  till  most  of  the  voyagers  had 
gone  down  the  gang-plank,  and  then  he  went  ashore.  In 
the  long,  shedlike  structure  he  stood  listlessly  watching 
the  custom-house  inspectors  examine  the  contents  of  his 
trunks,  and  when  the  task  was  over  he  took  a  taxicab 
for  his  hotel. 

For  a  while  he  looked  at  the  buildings  he  was  passing 
with  faint  surprise  over  their  spick-and-span  appearance 
and  immense  height.  The  women  on  the  crowded  side 
walks  appeared  to  be  inartistically  dressed,  compared  to 
the  Parisian  styles  to  which  his  eyes  had  become  accus 
tomed  even  in  the  poorest  of  the  working  classes. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  he  arrived  at  the  hotel,  and 
the  great  building  was  ablaze  with  electric  light.  He 
found  several  letters  on  business  matters  awaiting  him; 
but  he  did  not  then  look  them  over.  To-morrow,  he  told 
himself,  he  would  employ  a  stenographer  and  dictate 
answers  to  them.  He  went  into  a  great  glass-inclosed 

194 


THE    INNER   LAW 

cafe  in  the  center  of  the  ground  floor,  which  was  thronged 
with  gay  diners.  What  a  rasping  twang  most  of  their 
loud,  insistent  voices  held,  he  thought.  And  for  what 
earthly  reason  were  their  overdressed  owners  so  terribly 
gay?  At  the  moment  he  did  not  reflect  that  the  ma 
jority  of  them  were  persons  who  were  simply  visiting  the 
metropolis,  and  perhaps  for  the  first  and  last  time.  He 
did  not  want  to  eat,  and  decided  that  he  would  wait 
till  he  felt  more  like  it.  He  walked  listlessly  through 
what  appeared  to  his  jaundiced  taste  gaudily  upholstered 
and  tapestried  corridors,  Turkish  smoking-room,  recep 
tion-rooms,  and  salons.  Even  the  bulky  newspapers  in 
the  reading-room  had  a  cheap,  sensational  appearance, 
and  in  the  few  lines  he  scanned  on  the  editorial  pages  he 
detected  several  slangy  Americanisms,  expressions  which 
had  come  into  use  since  he  left  the  country. 

Leaving  the  hotel,  he  went  for  a  walk,  and  soon  found 
himself  in  "The  Great  White  Way."  He  had  seen  noth 
ing  so  electrically  brilliant  in  London,  Berlin,  or  Paris; 
but  its  effect  on  his  high-strung  nerves  was  anything  but 
soothing.  He  passed  several  theaters,  but  the  flashy, 
sensational  bill-boards  leaning  in  the  doorways  did  not 
stir  his  interest.  He  finally  selected  the  one  he  thought 
he  would  like  best,  and,  getting  into  a  line  before  the 
ticket-window,  he  secured  a  seat  and  entered.  The  first 
act  of  the  play  struck  him  as  being  unbearably  crude  in 
construction  and  motive,  and  the  performers  utterly  hope 
less.  He  left  during  the  first  intermission,  fairly  infuri 
ated  by  the  enthusiastic  applause  of  the  audience. 

" Fools,  fools!"  he  muttered.  "They  would  applaud 
a  mountain-school  exhibition.  No  wonder  the  outside 
world  is  laughing  at  them!" 

In  the  middle  of  the  next  block  he  came  to  the  entrance 
of  a  cabaret,  and,  obeying  a  weary  impulse,  he  went  in 
and  sat  at  a  table  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  beer,  which  he 
began  to  drink  after  critically  examining  the  foreign  label 

195 


THE    INNER    LAW 

and  deciding  that  it  had  not  really  been  bottled  abroad. 
He  believed  that  he  was  a  judge  of  drinks,  and  the  taste 
of  this  was  flat  and  insipid. 

There  was  a  little  stage  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  on 
it  stood  a  male  monologist  dressed  like  a  Jewish  clothing- 
dealer.  Crofton  tried  to  catch  the  drift  of  his  humorous 
recital,  but  failed  to  fix  his  attention  on  it  firmly  enough 
to  do  so.  Next  on  the  bill  was  a  French  danseuse.  He 
was  sure  he  had  seen  her  in  Paris,  and  the  idea  came  to 
him  that  it  might  gratify  the  girl  to  have  the  fact  men 
tioned  to  her  in  her  own  tongue  by  a  traveled  stranger; 
but  she  was  no  longer  very  young,  the  paint  and  powder 
were  fairly  daubed  on  her  face,  neck,  and  arms,  and  her 
dress  had  the  seedy,  bedraggled  look  of  a  rented  costume. 

He  paid  for  the  beer,  listlessly  tipped  the  waiter,  and 
went  into  the  street  again.  It  was  now  about  eleven 
o'clock.  He  was  not  sleepy;  he  was  too  nervous  to  be 
sleepy,  and  yet  he  told  himself  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do  but  to  go  to  bed  and  try  to  lose  himself  in  sleep. 
So  he  went  to  his  hotel  and  up  to  his  room.  Here  he 
stood  looking  at  his  image  in  the  big  mirror  on  his  bureau, 
as  he  took  off  his  collar  and  necktie.  Why  of  late  had  he 
come  to  look  so  much  like  a  dying  man?  Why  did  his 
clothes  hang  as  if  upon  a  mere  rack  of  flesh  and  bones? 
Why  did  the  reflection  of  his  face  always  horrify  him? 
What  was  it  that  lay  at  the  fount  of  those  piteous,  plead 
ing  eyes? 

He  recalled  what  a  friend  of  his  who  was  a  mental 
scientist  once  told  him,  that  the  condition  of  the  mind 
affected  the  body.  The  statement  had  clung  to  him  and 
become  logical  enough.  The  friend  had  said  that  to  have 
a  healthy  body  the  soul  must  be  pure,  have  high  spiritual 
aspirations,  and  be  free  from  worry  in  every  form. 

"Free  from  worry!"  In  his  case,  that  was  out  of  the 
question.  For  years  he  had  scarcely  known  an  hour's 
freedom  from  actual  carking  despondency.  The  friend 

196 


THE    INNER   LAW 

had  told  him  that  the  mental  cure  for  the  ailment  was 
easily  demonstrable.  All  one  had  to  do  was  to  sit  alone 
in  absolute  quiet  and  realize  that  he  himself  was  not  com 
posed  of  matter,  but  was  wholly  spirit  which  should  not 
be  controlled  by  any  material  "claim."  In  moments  of 
abject  agony  Crofton  had  secretly  tried  to  follow  these 
instructions,  but  never  with  success.  His  friend  had  told 
him  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  mental  suggestion, 
and  if  a  man's  thought  or  conduct  had  been  on  evil  lines 
for  a  long  time  his  whole  nature  would  be  molded  in 
accordance  with  those  things.  Hence,  if  an  evil-minded 
man  would  constantly  insist  upon  and  practise  purity  of 
thought  he  would  find,  through  mental  suggestion,  that 
he  was  gradually  rising  from  the  low,  material  plane  to 
a  high,  spiritual  one  which  was  the  only  eternal  reality. 
Crofton  tried  at  times  to  direct  his  mind  to  higher 
things,  but  seldom  succeeded,  and  now  he  was  coming  to 
believe  that  there  was  really  such  a  thing  as  actual  spirit 
ual  damnation.  His  uncle,  now  dead,  had  been  under 
its  spell  for  many  years,  and  he  himself  was  a  living  proof 
of  it.  So  to-night  when  the  return  to  the  land  of  his 
nativity  had  failed  to  interest  him,  had  even  increased  his 
burden,  he  sat  down,  turned  off  the  light,  and  in  darkness 
endeavored  to  "treat"  himself  silently,  according  to  the 
directions  of  his  friend.  But  the  desired  effect  had  never 
held  more  aloof  than  to-night.  The  roar  and  hum  of  the 
great  city  around  him,  the  strains  of  music  from  the  lower 
floor,  the  click  and  clash  of  elevator  doors,  the  clanging 
of  telephone  and  call  bells,  drew  his  mind  from  the 
placid  condition  into  which  he  was  trying  to  force  it;  so 
he  finally  desisted.  In  his  pocket  he  carried  a  bottle 
of  morphine  tablets,  and  now  and  then,  while  too  care 
ful  in  their  use  to  become  a  slave  of  the  drug,  and  in  ex 
treme  cases  only,  he  took  one  to  induce  sleep.  He  dis 
solved  a  tablet  in  a  glass  of  water  now  and  swallowed  it, 
smiling  grimly  at  the  thought  that  morphine  could  be 

197 


THE   INNER   LAW 

more  relied  on,  in  his  case,  at  least,  than  any  mental  atti 
tude  or  modern  metaphysical  formula. 

He  went  to  bed  and  slept.  He  dreamt  of  Paris,  of  the 
Latin  Quarter.  He  was  in  the  company  of  a  gay  crowd 
of  art  students  and  their  mistresses  in  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt. 
They  were  teasing  a  stranger,  an  American  tourist  who 
had  dared  to  enter  wearing  a  silk  top-hat  and  evening 
clothes.  There  was  a  deafening  clatter  of  drinking- 
glasses  hammered  on  beer-wet  tables,  merry  songs,  risque 
jests,  dense  cigarette-smoke.  Crofton  was  once  more  an 
irresponsible  youth,  and  it  was  all  gloriously  novel.  A 
pretty  young  girl  was  selling  flowers,  and  he  bought  a 
bouquet  of  roses.  How  strange!  they  were  wilting,  dy 
ing,  turning  into  a  wisp  of  brown  hay  such  as  he  had  seen 
back  in  the  Georgia  mountains. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked  her. 

"Oh,  you  know  me!"  she  answered,  with  a  rasping 
laugh  which,  somehow,  seemed  to  come  from  a  fat  French 
man's  trombone  in  the  orchestra,  and  he  saw  her  face 
crinkling  up  to  that  of  an  old  hag.  "I'm  Lydia  Romley. 
How  small  the  world  is !  Do  you  know,  Carter,  old  boy, 
I've  been  in  your  pocket  all  these  years.  Ha,  ha! — in  the 
corner  of  your  pocket  like  a  bad  penny  sewed  in  with  the 
stitches.  You  can't  lose  me !  I'm  at  the  bottom  of  your 
subconsciousness."  She  was  laughing  now  like  the  snarl 
of  the  kettledrum.  A  drunken  student  was  dashing  beer 
in  his  face,  another  was  kicking  him  from  behind. 

"You  are  an  interloper!"  one  of  them  was  shouting. 
"You  ravish  the  bodies  of  women  and  murder  their  souls! 
Get  out!  Get  out!" 

He  waked — or  was  he  fully  awake?  He  lay  with  his 
eyes  closed,  trying  to  remember  where  he  was.  Was  it 
Paris,  Geneva,  London,  on  shipboard?  No,  it  was 
America.  He  was  home  again.  Sick  of  soul,  weary  of 
life,  and  yet  home  once  more. 

So  passed  several  days.  He  avoided  the  bare  chance 

198 


THE    INNER   LAW 

of  meeting  any  one  who  might  know  him,  and  for  that 
reason  he  rambled  through  the  crowded  East  Side  streets, 
walking,  walking  all  day  long,  simply  that  he  might  be 
so  fatigued  that  he  would  sleep  without  recourse  to  his 
vaguely  dreaded  morphine. 

One  day  he  decided  suddenly  that  he  would  go  to 
Atlanta.  A  will-o'-the-wisp  idea  had  come  to  him  that 
he  could  stop  over  at  Washington  for  a  week  and  enjoy 
the  sights  of  the  city,  the  new  library  of  which  he  had 
heard,  and  a  certain  art-gallery.  He  took  a  midnight 
train  and  waked  in  Washington  the  next  morning.  But 
he  had  barely  left  the  Pullman,  and  was  being  conducted 
by  a  porter  to  the  waiting-room  in  the  big  station,  when 
he  decided  that  he  did  not  want  to  stop  in  Washington, 
after  all.  There  was  nothing  there  for  him  to  see,  and 
the  great,  quiet  town,  contrasted  to  the  metropolis,  made 
him  feel  lonelier  than  ever.  On  inquiring  at  the  Bureau 
of  Information  he  found  that  there  was  a  fast  train  leav 
ing  at  three  o'clock  for  Atlanta,  and,  after  sending  a  tele 
gram  to  Milicent  informing  her  of  his  coming,  he  went  out 
into  the  streets. 

"Surely,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  started  toward  the 
Capitol,  which  loomed  up  in  the  distance,  "I  can  manage 
to  amuse  myself  till  train-time;  then  night  will  soon 
come  and  I  shall  sleep  till  I  get  to  Atlanta.  But  after  I 
reach  the  place  what  will  I  do  ?  My  God !  what  can  I  do 
anywhere?" 


CHAPTER  II 

HE  walked  along  a  quiet  street  which  led  gradually 
up  Capitol  Hill.  As  he  drew  near  the  great  structure 
he  was  reminded  of  a  trip  he  had  made  with  his  cousin 
Tom  to  Washington  on  their  way  to  college.  What  a 
gay  time  they  had  had!  They  had  jested  with  police 
men,  to  whom  they  had  pretended  that  they  had  lost 
their  way,  and  with  the  importunate  professional  guides, 
to  whom  they  pretended,  with  the  blandest  of  faces,  that 
they  could  not  understand  English.  And  Tom  was  dead; 
he  had  been  dead  a  great  many  years  as  the  outcome  of 
his  awful  tragedy.  Yes,  both  Tom  and  his  father  were 
dead  and  out  of  it  all,  while  he  remained,  a  haunted 
soul  in  a  tottering,  withering  body.  What  was  coming 
to  him — what?  If  merry,  jovial,  innocent  Tom  had  suf 
fered  agony  and  death  by  his  own  hand,  what  might  not 
lie  ahead  of  his  surviving  comrade? 

On  his  left  he  descried  the  library,  and  was  going  tow 
ard  it  when  he  saw  a  lady  in  front  of  him  pause  to  ask 
a  man  the  direction  to  Pennsylvania  Avenue. 

"I'm  sorry,  madam,"  the  man  answered,  ''but  I'm  a 
stranger  here,"  and,  tipping  his  hat,  he  walked  on. 

"I  think  I  can  help  you,"  Crofton  said,  stepping  for 
ward.  "It  lies  down  this  way."  He  indicated  the  di 
rection  by  a  movement  of  his  hand,  and  then  his  eyes 
met  those  of  the  lady.  She  was  staring  at  him  as  if  as 
tonished,  even  alarmed. 

"Oh!"  he  heard  her  exclaim.     "Oh!" 

Crofton  stood  speechless  with  wonder.    Surely  he  had 

2QO 


THE   INNER   LAW 

seen  somewhere  those  sweet  hazel  eyes,  that  tender,  ap 
pealing  mouth,  the  light  golden-brown  hair,  the  shapely 
form,  and  perfect  facial  lines. 

"Surely  it  can't  be,"  he  began,  and  paused,  for  she  had 
turned  her  head  away,  her  gloved  hand  to  her  lips.  She 
was  quite  pale  and  he  saw  that  she  was  trembling. 

"Lydia,  Lydia!"  he  muttered;  "it  must  be  you — it  is 
you!" 

She  kept  her  face  averted  for  a  moment,  then  she 
turned  toward  him.  He  saw  that  she  was  growing  calmer. 
Her  wonderful  eyes  seemed  to  hold  some  grimly  set  purpose. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  count  upon  ever 
seeing  you  again.  I  saw  a  statement  in  a  Southern  paper 
ten  years  ago  that  you  were  living  permanently  abroad. 
I — I  was  glad  to  hear  it,  for — for  of  course,  I —  But  you 
understand — surely  you  do?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  gasped.  "Oh,  Lydia,  Lydia!  if  you 
only  knew  how  I  have  suffered,  how  I  am  suffering  now, 
surely  you — " 

"Suffered?"  she  broke  in,  suppressing  a  little  incredu 
lous  laugh.  "What,  you?" 

"Yes.     Let  me  tell  you.     I—" 

"No,  no,  no!  You  must  not!"  The  words  rippled 
quickly  from  her  tongue.  She  stood  erect,  her  eyes  full 
of  angry  fire.  "This  meeting  is  offensive  to  me.  I've 
prayed  that  it  should  never  come  about.  You  don't 
understand — you  could  never  understand.  I  am  not 
what  I  used  to  be.  My  great  sorrow  and  trouble — the 
awful  blight  on  my  girlhood — awakened  me  to  life  as  it 
really  is.  I  fought  my  battles.  I  worked,  toiled,  studied, 
read,  and  have  become  what  I  am.  I  can't  tell  you  my 
history.  You  have  no  right  to  know  it,  but  I  respect 
myself.  We  are  strangers — we  must  remain  such.  At 
last  God  has  given  me  contentment,  happiness,  faith  in 
myself  and  in  Him.  We  must  part  here  and  now,  never 
to  meet  again — never!" 

201 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"Oh,  I  see."  And  to  his  surprise  a  strange,  unex 
pected  pang  went  through  him  at  the  thought.  "You 
are — are  married,  and — " 

"No,  it  isn't  that!"  she  corrected.  "Ah,  you  think 
that  of  me,  I  see!  You  think  I've  hidden  the  truth  from 
some  good  man  and  become  a  wife  to  him  without  re 
vealing  my  past.  I  could  have  married  a  dozen  times, 
but  refused.  I  wanted  to  be  independent,  and  I  am  so. 
I'm  living  under  another  name.  I'm  supposed  to  be  a 
widow.  I  have  a  right  to  practise  that  deception." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  returned,  lamely,  a  hungry,  de 
feated  stare  fixed  upon  her  unrelenting  features.  "I  am 
aware,  Lydia,  that  I  can  never  be  pardoned.  You  hate 
me — you  hate  me.  I  know  it  because — I  hate  myself. 
I  am  in  despair.  Life  has  no  interest  for  me.  I  am  at 
the  end  of  my  resources.  I'd  rather  be  dead  than  alive." 

"I  can  see  it  all  written  in  your  worn  face,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  reflective  shake  of  her  head.  "I  did  not 
dream  that  you  were  like  this,  and  yet  I  might  have 
known  it,  for  you  had,  I  remember,  redeeming  spiritual 
qualities,  and  it  is  the  spiritually  inclined  who  suffer 
from  remorse,  and  it  was  remorse — it  must  have  been 
that." 

"It  is  worse  than  remorse,"  he  cried.  "Lydia,  have 
mercy  on  me.  I  am  sinking  into  hell  itself.  You  are 
the  only  one  who  can  hold  out  a  saving  hand.  I've  never, 
since  I  saw  you,  been  drawn  in  actual  love  to  any  living 
woman.  The  passion  I  had  for  you,  away  back  there, 
must  have  been  real — the  one  reality  of  my  misguided 
life,  and  as  I  stand  here  with  you  now  I  feel  that  with 
you  and  your  forgiveness — " 

"You  forget — you  forget!"  she  cried  out,  sharply, 
even  indignantly.  "If  you  could  look  back  on  what  I've 
been  through  you'd  see  how  utterly  futile  your  suggestion 
is.  Why,  all  these  years  I've  been  schooling  myself  to  abso 
lute  contempt  of  you !  At  this  moment  I  shrink  from  you, 

202 


THE   INNER   LAW 

Perhaps  you  understand  me  well  enough  to  respect  me 
a  little  now,  but  that  is  because  you've  never  once  thought 
of  me  during  all  those  years  in  Europe,  while  it  has  been 
my  life's  aim  to  get  the — the  awful  stain  of  you  out  of 
my  being.  Ah,  but  I  really  ought  not  to  complain,  for 
that  very  disaster,  sickening  as  it  is  to  think  of,  has 
actually  lifted  me  to  a  plane  unreachable  in  any  other 
way.  You  yourself  taught  me  to  read — the  books  and 
helping  hands  God  cast  in  my  way  did  the  rest." 

* 'There  is  nothing  I  can  say,  then — nothing !"  he  groaned, 
softly. 

" No,  no;  it  would  do  no  good  at  all,"  she  said,  looking 
up  at  the  sun,  and  then  at  a  tiny  gold  watch  on  her  soft, 
pink  wrist.  "We  must  not  meet  again.  I  do  not  live 
here;  I'll  say  that  much.  I  am  only  passing  through 
Washington  on  business.  I  earn  my  own  living,  you 
see." 

For  an  instant  it  was  as  if  she  were  about  to  give  him 
her  hand,  but  instead  she  used  it  in  raising  her  sunshade. 

"Oh,Lydia,Lydia,"  he  cried  out,"  think,  think!  Don't 
go  like  this!  You  are  too  kind  and  good  to — " 

"No,  I  can't  explain,"  she  interrupted,  firmly,  her  lips 
drawn  tight,  the  lips  which  now  seemed  sweeter  and 
more  beautiful  than  ever  before,  "  but  you  may  as  well 
know  this:  there  is  an  obstacle  to  our  being  known  even 
as  old  acquaintances — a  most  serious  obstacle." 

"Ah,  I  see.  You  love  some  one  else.  I  deserve  it — I 
deserve  it.  I've  lost  you,  that's  all;  I've  lost  you,  and 
that  is  to  be  my  punishment." 

She  took  a  step  away  from  him,  her  eyes  cast  thought 
fully  on  the  wide,  shaded  avenue  leading  down  the  hill 
in  the  direction  of  the  Washington  Monument,  which 
pierced  a  mass  of  fleecy  clouds. 

"It  is  nothing  to  me  what  you  think, '  she  said,  with 
a  proud  curl  to  her  lip,  "but,  nevertheless,  your  supposi 
tion  is  untrue.  Now,  I  am  going." 

203 


THE    INNER    LAW 

Without  glancing  back  she  moved  away.  He  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  then  hastily  followed  till  he  was  once 
more  by  her  side. 

"Don't,  don't!"  he  pleaded.  "One  moment,  Lydia, 
please,  please!" 

She  paused  and  turned  a  sensitive  face  and  twitching 
mouth  toward  him.  "What  is  it?"  she  asked  in  the 
voice  which  had  once  been  so  musical  to  him,  and  was 
now,  in  its  tone  of  reproach,  more  so  than  ever.  "I 
can't  remain  here  longer — I  must  go.  I  am  leaving  the 
city  to-day." 

"So  am  I,"  he  said,  huskily,  hastily,  hardly  knowing 
what  it  was  that  he  wanted  still  to  plead.  Then  the 
thought  came.  His  voice  shook  and  his  eyes  were  full 
of  agony  as  he  went  on:  "Lydia,  I  am  still  a  man  of 
means.  Everything  else  has  left  me  but  my  money. 
That  has  even  increased.  I  have  no  use  for  it.  Away 
back  there  I  did  not  have  the  courage,  the  manhood  to 
offer  to  aid  you  after  deserting  you  when  you  were  my 
wife  in  the  sight  of  God,  but  now — now  I — " 

"Do  you  think  I  need  your  money?"  she  cried,  in  with 
ering  scorn.  "Great  heavens!  can  you  so  little  under 
stand  me?  Don't  I  know  that  it  is  the  same  paltry  stuff 
that  enticed  you  into  cowardly  dishonor  along  with  your 
puny  pride?  When  I  knew  you,  you  were  a  man.  If  you 
hadn't  been  I,  ignorant  and  young  as  I  was,  would  not 
have  trusted  you.  You  had  a  living  soul  then — a  soul 
full  of  wonderful  beauty  and  high  aspirations.  I  saw  it 
then — it  was  that  which  attracted  me.  It  is  dead  now. 
It  is;  it  is;  your  soul  is  dead!  My  poverty  was  my  sal 
vation,  while  your  wealth  has  held  you  down.  If  I  cared 
for  your  welfare  I'd  beg  you  to  give  it  away — throw  it 
away!  It  is  trash!" 

He  was  not  comprehending  the  full  depth  of  her  philo 
sophical  remark;  he  was  thinking  only  of  the  widening 
chasm  between  them. 

204 


THE    INNER  LAW 

"Lydia,  Lydia,  don't  go  yet — not  yet!"  he  cried,  for 
she  was  turning  away.  "I'll  do  anything  in  the  world 
you  advise,  but  don't  leave  me.  Let  me  know  where 
you  live — where  I  may  write  to  you.  I  can't  stand  this 
parting.  Look  at  me,  pity  me !  For  God's  sake  pity  me ! 
Not  in  a  thousand  years  could  I  tell  you  what  I  have  be 
come — what  I  have  sunken  to." 

He  thought  he  saw  a  soft  light  dawn  in  her  eyes,  but 
it  was  only  a  flash;  it  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  asking,"  she  said,  stern 
ly.  "I  can't  make  you  see  the  utter  impossibility  of 
what  you  wish  without  telling  you  certain  things  which 
I  don't  want  you  ever  to  know.  Do  you  understand? 
Things  you  shall  not  know.  I  wonder  if  I  can  put  it 
strongly  enough  to  convince  you,  force  you  to  desist,  and 
let  me  remain  out  of  your  life  for  ever  and  make  you  stay 
out  of  mine.  Carter  Crofton,  I  am  so  situated — so  situ 
ated  that  I  would  rather  be  slowly  tortured  to  death  a 
hundred  times  than  have  my — my  friends  know  that  I 
ever  knew  you.  Is  that  plain  enough?" 

He  uttered  a  deep  groan.  "Then — then  it  is  final?"  he 
gasped. 

"Yes,  it  is  final." 

"There  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  ask,"  he  faltered. 
"Your  mother — is  she — " 

"She  died  five  years  ago.  God  helped  me  to  help  her. 
By  my  sole  efforts  I  lifted  her  out  of  the  life  of  toil  you 
saw  her  in.  She  lived  for  fifteen  years  in  ease  and  comfort. 
She  shielded  me  from  the  world's  contempt.  In  the  strange 
places  we  lived  in  she  kept  my  secret.  She  was  a  wonder 
ful  woman.  She  was  uneducated,  but  she  had  the  finest 
character  I  ever  knew.  She  never  told  me  till  shortly 
before  her  death  that  her  ancestors  had  been  people  of 
high  position  in  England.  The  revelation  did  me  no 
harm;  in  fact,  it  encouraged  me  to  strive  hard  to  rise 
and  overcome  my  obstacles.  You  can't  imagine  what 

205 


THE   INNER   LAW 

I've  been  through — you  shall  never  know;  but  it  is  over 
now  and  I  am  happy,  or  was  till — till  now.  I  don't  know 
what  the  promise  of  such  a  man  as  you  are  may  or  may 
not  amount  to,  but  if  I  could  get  you  to  promise  never 
to  seek  me,  never  to  mention  my  name  to  a  living  soul, 
I'd  feel  safer  in  parting  from  you." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  for  a  group  of  sight-seers 
was  passing,  accompanied  by  a  talkative  guide. 

"Oh,  Lydia,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  asking!  I 
feel  for  the  first  time  in  years  that  a  bare  chance  of  re 
demption  is  given  me — through  you.  I  want  to  atone. 
I  want  to  live  for  you  (pardon  me)  and  with  you,  at  least 
with  you  under  my  eyes  and  care,  so  that — " 

"Stop  and  be  done  with  it!"  she  cried  out,  sharply, 
even  angrily.  "I've  said  it  was  impossible.  Listen,  and 
have  the  decency  to  promise  what  I  ask.  I  can't  explain 
fully,  but  to  accept  you  as — even  as  a  friend,  I'd  have  to 
be  humiliated  again  as  badly,  if  not  worse  than  I  was 
before.  Yes,  yes,  it  would  be  even  worse.  I  stood  that, 
but  I  couldn't  stand  this.  I'd  rather  have  my  heart  torn 
out.  Tell  me,  do  you  promise?  I've  not  asked  anything 
else  of  you.  Will  you  grant  me  this?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  which  was  all  but  a  moan, 
"I  promise,  Lydia,  I  promise." 

"Thank  you.  Good-by,"  she  said;  and,  turning,  she 
left  him  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  Capitol's  dome. 

He  watched  her  as  she  went  down  the  great,  wide  flight 
of  steps.  He  even  followed  her  with  his  despondent 
eyes  till  she  had  reached  the  Avenue.  He  saw  her  signal 
a  cab  with  her  sunshade.  The  cab  turned  in  to  the 
edge  of  the  sidewalk,  and  she  got  inside  and  was  lost  to 
his  view. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  arrived  in  Atlanta  the  next  morning  at  eight  o'clock. 
He  half  expected  Milicent  to  meet  him  with  a  car 
riage,  but  as  she  did  not  do  so,  he  went  up  in  a  cab.  The 
city  had  changed  greatly.  There  were  many  tall  new 
office  buildings,  and  other  modern  improvements.  He 
was  surprised  at  the  metropolitan  air  of  the  place.  The 
electric  cars  had  a  new  look;  they  followed  one  another 
in  quick  succession,  and,  early  as  it  was,  were  crowded 
with  passengers. 

The  thing  which  was  changed  least  of  all  was  the  old 
homestead  which  Milicent,  who  had  never  married,  owned 
and  occupied. 

When  she  met  him  at  the  door  he  thought  that  she  was 
not  very  greatly  altered.  Her  hair  was  only  slightly 
touched  with  gray;  her  complexion  had  a  healthful  look, 
and  there  were  few  lines  in  her  face.  She  kissed  him  rather 
formally,  and  then  held  him  from  her,  studying  his  features 
with  an  expression  of  surprise  in  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  look  well,"  she  said,  rather  bluntly.  "Why 
didn't  you  write  me  that  you  were  under  the  weather?" 

"I'm  not  really  unwell,"  he  tried  to  explain;  "but  I 
presume  I  am  tired  by  travel.  I  know  I  look  older,  of 
course.  I  am  aging  rather  fast.  It  runs  in  the  family, 
don't  you  think  so?" 

She  made  no  direct  answer,  but  led  him  into  the  parlor. 
How  antiquated  and  forlorn  it  appeared  to  him,  for  it 
was  the  same  furniture  which  he  had  seen  as  a  child! 

"I've  kept  breakfast  for  you,"  she  said.  "Run  up  to 
your  old  room  and  hurry  right  down.  You  will  find 

207 


THE    INNER   LAW 

everything  there  exactly  as  it  used  to  be.  People  say 
I'm  a  fool  for  keeping  this  old  ruin  of  a  place,  but  it  is 
rising  in  value.  I  am  not  spending  much  money;  you 
will  find  that  out.  I  don't  believe  in  it.  I  keep  only 
one  servant,  and  a  cheap  one  at  that.  I  do  most  of  the 
work  myself.  It  is  good  for  me." 

He  found  her  at  her  old  place  at  the  end  of  the  long 
mahogany  table  which  he  remembered  so  well.  Here 
also  few  changes  had  been  made.  He  noted  nothing 
except  a  new  portrait  of  his  father  beside  that  of  his 
mother  over  the  mantelpiece,  and  recalled  that  Milicent 
had  allowed  him  to  pay  for  it. 

"Now  you  will  want  to  know  the  family  news  first, 
of  course,"  she  began,  as  she  poured  his  coffee.  "I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand — now  I  am  not  scolding — 
why  you  have  written  so  seldom  and  why  you  have  never 
shown  any  interest  in  us  at  all.  Even  when  I  wrote  you 
of  uncle's  death  you  made  no  response." 

"There  was  nothing  to  say,"  he  answered,  somewhat 
awkwardly.  "  He  was  very  old,  you  know.  I  presume  he 
remained  a  recluse  to  the  end?" 

"Yes;  he  didn't  encourage  me  to  visit  him,  so  I  ceased 
to  go,  and  as  for  him,  I  can't  remember  his  coming  to 
Atlanta  even  once  after  you  left.  I  heard  that  his  finances 
were  low.  When  Henry  lost  all  he  had  speculating  so 
wildly,  and  was  bothering  me  for  money,  which,  of  course, 
I  couldn't  let  him  have  to  throw  away  as  he  had  his  own, 
uncle  borrowed  money  and  let  him  have  it.  That  was 
not  all.  Now  I  never  wrote  you  this,  for  I  saw  there  was 
no  use  to  bother  you  with  disagreeable  news,  but  I'll  tell 
you  now,  for  you  really  must  know  how  Henry  is  situated. 
He  got  into  serious  trouble.  I  don't  know  what  it  was, 
exactly,  but  it  was  something  about  a  check  Henry  had 
given  at  a  bank  when  he  had  no  funds  there.  Henry  was 
arrested  and  would  have  been  sent  to  jail,  but  uncle  made 
the  loss  good  and  he  was  released." 

208 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"And  when  uncle  died  he  left  him  the  farm?"  Carter 
said.  "I  think  you  wrote  me  that." 

"  Yes;  it  was  a  silly  thing  to  do,  but  he  left  him  every 
thing  he  had  out  there — the  farm,  horses  and  cattle  and 
run-down  implements." 

"A  pretty  farmer  Henry  must  be,"  Carter  smiled. 
"How  does  the  place  look?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  not  been  there  for  years  and 
years,  and  shall  not  go  again.  I  went  once  and  was  in 
sulted." 

"Insulted?"  Carter  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  it  was  equal  to  that.  Henry  is  living  there  with 
a  woman  who  is  not  his  wife,  a  most  wretched-looking, 
half -educated  creature.  Uncle  took  them  in.  The  two 
were  starving  somewhere,  and  he  took  pity  on  them. 
She  was  the  wife  of  a  mountain  farmer  who  left  her  hus 
band  and  ran  off  with  Henry.  Together  the  two  nursed 
uncle  in  his  last  illness,  and  were  with  him  at  the  end. 
It  must  have  been  a  queer  household.  I  am  sure  the 
decent  people  in  the  neighborhood  don't  call  on  her.  I 
did  not  know  the  woman  was  there,  and  when  I  went  out 
Henry  expected  me  to  sit  at  the  table  with  her.  I  left 
on  the  first  train.  He  was  furious  and  swore  at  me.  Oh, 
you  wouldn't  know  him;  he  has  changed  frightfully.  He 
has  lost  every  bit  of  his  old  swaggering  pride.  He  wears 
rags  and  mopes  about  the  place,  pretending  to  be  busy 
with  his  crops,  and  never  accomplishing  anything.  It 
made  me  sick,  actually  sick,  to  think  he  was  my  brother. 
I  was  haunted  by  the  memory  of  it  so  that  I  hardly  slept 
for  a  month  afterward.  Carter,  something  is  wrong  with 
us  Croftons.  I'm  leading  a  lonely  life;  some  persons  say 
that  I'm  stingy,  but  I  don't  think  it  is  stinginess  to  look 
out  for  one's  interests.  Uncle  was  a  hermit;  Henry  is  a 
dwindling  human  wreck,  and  you  are  a  dissatisfied  wan 
derer  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

With  a  slow  nod  he  agreed  with  her.  "I'm  going  out 
14  209 


THE   INNER   LAW 

to  see  Henry,"  he  sighed.  "I  wonder —  Do  you  happen 
to  know  how  uncle  died?  I  mean — was  he  conscious  up 
to  the  end?  Did  he  have  anything  to  say?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Milicent  replied.  " Henry  was  angry 
at  me  and  did  not  even  write  me  that  uncle  was  not  ex 
pected  to  live.  In  fact,  I  did  not  hear  of  his  death  till  I 
saw  an  account  of  it  in  the  papers.  Yes,  I  suppose  you 
ought  to  go  out  to  see  Henry,  but  he  will  want  money, 
and  I  know  he  cannot  give  you  good  security." 

"Do  you  think  he  is  in  need?" 

"  Yes.  He  tried  several  times  to  get  your  address  before 
he  stopped  coming  to  Atlanta,  but  I  wouldn't  give  it  to 
him.  I  knew  he  would  bother  you  incessantly.  Once  I 
thought  I'd  warn  you  to  look  out  for  him,  but  I  decided 
not  to  do  so.'* 

"Is  Charley  Farnham  in  Atlanta?"  Carter  asked. 

"Oh  yes.  You  wouldn't  know  him,  he  is  so  fat  and 
gross-looking.  He  is  still  making  money.  He  invested 
in  real  estate  before  the  boom,  and  the  railroad  has  paid 
both  of  you,  he  tells  me." 

"Yes,  it  has  done  quite  well.  Charley  is  happy  in  his 
marriage,  I  think  you  wrote  me." 

"I  presume  so.  She  is  a  plain,  unpretentious  little 
woman  from  Cleveland,  Ohio.  She  had  quite  a  snug 
little  fortune,  I've  heard.  She  was  an  only  daughter  of 
some  wealthy  railroad  man.  She  doesn't  care  a  thing  for 
dress,  doesn't  take  to  Southern  customs — is  one  of  those 
women  who  think  it  is  wrong  to  wear  corsets.  She  seems 
to  live  only  for  the  children." 

"They  have  more  than  one?" 

"Oh  yes,  two  fine  boys  of  fourteen  and  sixteen,  and  a 
girl  of  twelve,  quite  a  pretty  little  thing.  Charley  takes 
great  pride  in  them — indulges  them  frightfully  and  spends 
too  much  money  on  them.  He  knows  I  was  expecting 
you.  I  'phoned  him  yesterday.  He  will  be  around  to 
see  you  to-day  sure." 


CHAPTER  IV 

MILICENT'S  prediction  was  fulfilled.  Carter  was 
seated  on  the  front  veranda  after  breakfast  when 
Farnham  rode  up  to  the  gate  in  a  fine  automobile  driven 
by  a  skilled  colored  chauffeur.  Farnham  alighted  care 
fully,  for  he  was  quite  heavy.  He  opened  the  gate  slowly, 
and  with  a  ponderous  tread  entered,  waving  his  hand 
merrily  as  he  caught  the  eye  of  his  friend,  who  was  stand 
ing  on  the  step  waiting  for  him. 

"Commong  voo,  porty  voo,  mon  ammy?"  he  laughed. 
"How  did  you  ever  leave  gay  Paree  to  come  to  this  hole 
in  the  ground?"  He  was  now  extending  his  fat  hand 
toward  Carter's  thin,  nervous  one.  "Don't  pull  me  up 
the  steps.  I've  got  to  be  careful  in  my  old  age.  If  I 
stumbled  and  fell  I  might  break  a  blood-vessel.  Gra 
cious  !  you  are  as  thin  as  a  match.  The  doctor  says  I  must 
play  golf  and  get  some  of  this  meat  off  of  my  bones  or 
I'll  go  out  like  a  flash  when  I'm  least  expecting  it." 

"You  have  taken  on  weight,"  Carter  said.  "That  is 
something  I  can't  do,  try  as  I  will." 

"Well,  well,  you've  changed,  too."  Farnham  was  star 
ing  in  frank  surprise  into  his  friend's  face  and  sweeping 
him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  critical  scrutiny.  "Gee! 
you  are  as  gray  as  a  badger  and  have  some  crow's-feet. 
I  haven't  any  white  hairs,  but  I'm  as  bald  as  an  egg. 
Look!"  He  removed  his  straw  hat  and  displayed  a  per 
fectly  bare  pate  which  he  gingerly  stroked  with  his  pudgy 
pink  hand. 

"Come  into  the  house,"  Crofton  said.    "There  is  not, 

211 


THE    INNER   LAW 

so  much  glare  there."  And  he  led  the  way  into  the  par 
lor. 

"Really,  I  can't  see  how  Milicent  stands  this  stuffy  old 
joint,"  Farnham  remarked.  "It  would  give  me  the  all- 
overs.  Everybody  that  can  afford  it  is  building  up-to- 
date  houses,  and  she  has  plenty  of  money,  the  Lord  knows. 
As  for  business,  she  is  the  keenest  trader  for  a  woman 
that  I  ever  saw.  You  must  see  my  home.  If  there  is  a 
modern,  up-to-date  wrinkle  or  improvement  I  haven't 
got  I'll  put  it  in  in  twenty-four  hours.  I  guess  my  garage 
alone  is  as  big  as  this  house.  My  caretaker  and  his 
family  live  on  the  second  floor  of  it.  I'd  call  it  a  lodge  if 
I  was  a  blawsted  Englishman  like  the  chap  that  enter 
tained  us  at  the  Savage  Club  and  talked  poetry  to  you. 
What  a  funny  bloke  he  was!  Lord!  I've  thought  of  those 
gay  old  days  a  thousand  times  and  told  things  we  did 
over  there.  It  is  the  place  to  enjoy  money  in,  beyond  a 
doubt.  I've  both  envied  you  and  been  sorry  for  you." 

"Sorry  for  me?"  Carter  exclaimed. 

"Well,  yes.  You  see,  I  know  it  is  all  right  just  for  a 
trip  of  a  month  or  so,  but  as  a  steady  diet  give  me  my 
old  stamping-ground  here  in  the  sunny  South,  where  folks 
are  just  plain  folks  and  niggers  are  niggers.  Then  I 
reckon  if  I'd  been  living  over  there  I'd  have  been  like 
you  and  never  married,  and  you  may  say  what  you  please, 
Carter,  but  marriage  is  as  necessary  to  the  rounding  out 
of  a  man's  life  as  food,  clothes,  and  money." 

"You  think  that,  do  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  and  I  ought  to  know.  I  gave  the  thing  a  lot 
of  consideration.  I  thought  more  about  it  on  the  ship 
coming  home  after  I  left  you  than  I  ever  had  before. 
You  see,  I  was  getting  along  in  years  even  then,  and — 
well,  I  actually  worried  over  it.  I  tussled  with  the  prob 
lem  for  five  years  after  that.  The  truth  is,  I  wanted 
children.  Funny  to  hear  me  say  that,  isn't  it?  But  I 
I  got  so  I  wanted  the  darn  little  brats  in  my  arms, 


THE   INNER   LAW 

and  sometimes  picked  up  babies,  where  nobody  knew  me; 
and  hugged  them." 

"It  seems  to  be  a  natural  human  instinct/'  Carter  re 
turned,  with  a  frown  of  which  he  was  not  conscious. 
"And  so  you  finally  decided  to  marry?" 

"Yes,  and,  indirectly,  at  least,  you  had  something  to 
do  with  it." 

"I?    I  don't  understand." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  said  you,  for  maybe 
it  was  more  your  uncle  than  you.  Now  I  think  of  it,  it 
was  both  of  you  put  together.  It  was  that  awful  story 
of  his  life  and  what  he  tried  so  hard  to  get  you  to  do. 
The  whole  blame  thing  stuck  to  me,  it  did — not  while  we 
were  kicking  up  such  high  jinks  in  Europe  together,  but 
after  I  got  home.  You  see,  I  began  to  wonder  if  the  old 
man  was  right  in — well,  in  what  he  was  afraid  would 
happen  to  you  if  you  didn't  take  action  in  that  matter. 
I  don't  bother  much  about — well,  about  things  concerning 
what  you  might  call  the  conscience,  but  somehow  my  mind 
stuck  to  that  thing  a  lot.  I  met  him  out  on  his  farm  once 
or  twice — maybe  three  times,  altogether,  and  while  I 
never  let  him  know,  of  course,  that  I  knew  about  his 
trouble  or  yours,  still  it  made  me  watch  him  and  set  me 
to  thinking  about  myself." 

"About  yourself?" 

"Yes,  it  was  strange,  but  I  admit  it  worried  me.  I  re 
member  asking  myself  one  day,  after  I  saw  him  pass  with 
his  old  white  head  down,  looking  so  gloomy — I  asked  my 
self  what  would  he  say  to  me  if  he  knew  exactly  how  I'd 
lived,  and  the  answer  was  that  he'd  advise  me  just  as 
strongly  as  he  did  you  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  make 
amends  before  it  was  too  late." 

"Before  it  was  too  late?" 

"Yes.  I  seemed  to  feel,  somehow,  that  if  I'd  cut  out  the 
old  way  of  living,  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  actually  pin 
it  down  by  straight  conduct  from  that  time  on,  I  would 

213 


THE   INNER   LAW 

come  out  right  in  the  end.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
quit  drinking  so  much.  Next  I  cut  out  poker  and  fast 
society  generally.  I  quit  giving  big  dinners,  and — you 
may  laugh,  but  I  stopped  flirting  with  other  men's  wives. 
I  went  about  the  whole  thing  in  a  thorough,  business 
like  way.  I  had  determined  to  get  married,  you  see,  and 
knew  if  I  got  the  right  sort  of  woman  I'd  have  to  find 
her  in  a  different  sort  of  circle.  At  last  I  met  her.  I 
seemed  to  know  intuitively  on  the  spot,  the  day  her 
father  introduced  us,  that  she  and  I  would  hit  it  off.  I 
give  you  my  word,  old  chap,  that  I  have  never  regretted 
it  a  minute.  She  has  a  long  business  head  on  shoulders 
which  she  got  from  that  Yankee  dad  of  hers,  and  has 
made  a  model  mother  to  three  of  the  finest  kids  you  ever 
saw  in  a  bunch.  Say,  you  must  see  them,  Carter.  They 
are  all  at  St.  Simon's  Island  for  sea-bathing,  just  now, 
but  when  they  get  back  I'll  have  you  out  on  a  visit.  Oh, 
I'm  a  regular  fool  about  my  family!  I  miss  them  now 
frightfully.  I  am  living  at  the  club  while  they  are  away, 
simply  because  I  can't  stand  the  sight  of  that  big,  empty 
house  without  them.  When  they  were  little  things  I 
used  to  leave  the  office  early  just  to  go  out  home  and  romp 
about  with  them.  Huh!  I've  been  down  on  my  all-fours 
on  the  floor  or  grass  with  them  on  my  back  like  a  horse 
many  a  time,  and  have  kept  it  up  till  my  spine  was 
bent  and  knees  ached.  Oh,  I've  had  my  share  of  trouble 
with  them,  too!  They've  been  sick,  and  met  with  the 
usual  accidents,  and  I've  lost  sleep  on  account  of  it  all; 
but  it  is  worth  it.  I  reckon  you've  given  up  all  idea  of 
marrying  by  this  time?" 

"Yes."  Carter  tried  to  smile.  "I'm  too  old  now." 
"I  guess  you  have  passed  the  limit,"  Farnham  agreed, 
candidly.  "A  bachelor  of  long  standing  has  habits  which 
he  can't  easily  twist  into  shape  with  domestic  life.  I  just 
did  escape,  you  see.  Maybe  I  would  have  been  too  old 
as  it  was  if  I  hadn't  been  so  tired  of  living  in  clubs  and 

214 


THE    INNER    LAW 

hotels  that  home  life  appealed  to  me  as  a  novelty.  Of 
course,  there  are  things  I  have  to  remember  that  I'd  like 
to  forget — things  that  stick,  somehow.  I  wonder  if  you 
are  like  me  in  that  respect." 

"I  suppose  all  men  are  more  or  less  alike  in  that,  way," 
Carter  answered,  evasively,  his  brow  corrugated,  a  vague 
shadow  in  his  eyes. 

"I've  often  wondered — that  is,  I've  thought,  owing  to 
your  uncle's  making  so  damned  much  ado  over  that  par 
ticular  girl,  that  perhaps  you  have  wondered  what  ever 
became  of  her." 

Carter  started.  His  face  became  rigid.  His  lips 
quivered.  "I  have  not  allowed  my  mind  to  dwell  on  it. 
I — I  don't  like  to  think  of  it.  It  is  all  past  and  gone.  Let 
us  not  talk  about  it." 

"All  right,  but  I  fancy  you  may  have  let  it  bother  you 
some,  and  it  strikes  me  that  I  may  be  able  to  relieve  your 
mind  a  little  bit,  in  one  way,  at  least,  for  I  guess  you 
would  like  to  know  that  she  is  well  and  doing  well." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  have  seen  her?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so — that  is,  if  I  am  right  in  a  certain  sup 
position.  I  am  almost  sure  that  I  saw  her  about  five 
years  ago.  I  started  to  write  to  you,  and  then  decided  I 
would  not  stir  up  such  an  old  matter — besides,  as  I  say, 
I  was  not  absolutely  sure." 

"Where  did  you — think  you  saw  her?"  Carter's  voice, 
to  his  own  ears,  had  a  hollow  sound.  "Of  course,  of 
course,  I'd  like  to  hear  anything  about  her — anything." 

"It  happened  like  this,"  Farnham  began,  "and  I  wish 
I  could  be  absolutely  sure  it  was  she.  I  can't  give  you 
any  more  than  my  impression  at  the  time.  I  was  in  St. 
Louis  on  railroad  business  when  I  was  taken  down  with 
a  sharp  pain  in  my  right  side.  A  doctor  I  sent  for  to  come 
to  my  room  in  the  hotel  said  he  was  afraid  I  had  acute 
appendicitis,  and  advised  my  going  to  a  private  hospital 
at  once.  I  was  taken  there,  and  Dr.  Ansley,  the  famous 

215 


THE    INNER    LAW 

St.  Louis  specialist,  was  called.  It  was  appendicitis,  and 
I  was  operated  on.  I  came  through  it  all  right,  and  a  day 
or  so  afterward,  for  some  unknown  reason,  a  new  nurse 
had  to  be  assigned.  Dr.  Ansley  told  me  that  he  had  sent 
for  a  Mrs.  Somebody — I  can't  recall  the  name,  though  I 
have  tried  often  to  do  so.  He  said  she  was  the  most 
wonderful  woman  he  had  ever  met,  and  that  he  was  sure 
I  would  like  her.  I  flatter  myself  that  I  know  men  pretty 
well,  and  I  made  up  my  mind,  from  his  talk,  even  before 
I  saw  the  woman,  that  Ansley,  being  a  sedate  bachelor, 
was  in  love  with  her,  and  when  I  finally  did  see  her  I  was 
certain  of  it.  I  was  quite  surprised  when  she  came,  for 
I  was  almost  sure  that  I  had  seen  her  somewhere  before. 
She  was  beautiful — beautiful!  and  had  a  wonderfully 
sweet  and  appealing  way  about  her.  She  bent  down, 
spoke  to  me,  and  something  in  her  soft,  mellow  voice  re 
minded  me  of  that  mountain  girl  away  back  in  Georgia. 
I  said  nothing,  but  during  the  next  day,  not  being  per 
mitted  to  talk,  I  lay  and  studied  her.  Dr.  Ansley  came 
oftener  than  was  necessary,  and  I  soon  saw  that  it  was 
to  see  her  more  than  me.  I  could  see  that  she  was  treat 
ing  him  with  dignified  reserve,  and  that  he  was  making 
every  possible  effort  to  win  her  regard.  Then  something 
happened  which  made  me  almost  positive  that  I  was 
right  in  thinking  she  and  your  old  friend  were  one  and 
the  same,  but,  mind  you,  I  say  almost  positive,  for,  after 
all,  there  may  have  been  some  other  reason  for  the  way 
she  acted." 
.  " Acted  about  what?" 

"Why,  it  was  like  this:  On  the  morning  I  was  allowed 
to  talk  for  the  first  time,  she  bent  over  me  and  among 
other  questions  she  asked  me  my  name,  saying  that  the 
doctor  had  failed  to  mention  it  and  that  she  must  enter 
it  on  her  chart.  I  gave  it  to  her  in  full.  With  that  she 
started,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  actually  turned  pale 
as  she  stood  and  studied  my  features  excitedly. 

216 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"'You  are  Southern,  are  you  not?'  she  asked  in  a 
shaky  sort  of  voice,  and  when  I  told  her  I  was  from 
Atlanta  she  tightened  her  lips  and  turned  suddenly 
away.  She  was  writing  on  her  chart,  I  think,  behind  a 
screen  at  a  little  table,  and  I  could  not  see  her  face.  In 
fact,  she  left  the  room  with  her  face  turned  aside,  as  if 
she  did  not  want  me  to  look  at  her.  And  that  was  not  all. 
She  put  an  assistant  in  her  place  at  once  and  left  the  hos 
pital.  I  inquired,  but  no  one  could  tell  me  anything  about 
her.  I  might  never  have  heard  anything  but  for  Dr. 
Ansley.  He  came  that  night  and  seemed  very  much  dis 
turbed.  He  told  the  nurse  who  was  on  duty  to  leave 
the  room,  and  then  he  began  asking  me  adroit  questions, 
and  making  hints  that  I  could  not  catch  the  drift  of. 
But  presently,  as  if  irritated  with  me,  he  came  out  blunt 
ly  and  wanted  to  know  frankly  if  I  had  said  anything  to 
offend  the  nurse  who  had  left.  I  assured  him  that  I 
had  not,  to  my  knowledge,  and  he  seemed  to  believe  me. 
He  was  so  much  upset  by  what  had  happened  that  he 
refused  to  obey  a  call  which  came  to  him,  and  remained 
with  me.  He  finally — and  you  know  only  a  man  desperate 
ly  interested  in  a  woman  would  do  such  a  thing  with  a 
comparative  stranger  such  as  I  was — he  told  me  frankly 
that  his  future  happiness  was  tied  up  in  her.  He  said 
that  he  had  admired  her  from  the  moment  he  met  her  on 
an  important  case  in  Philadelphia  six  months  before, 
and  that  he  had  induced  her  to  come  to  St.  Louis  to  attend 
some  important  cases  with  him.  She  had  never  told  him 
where  she  was  from,  but  from  her  accent  he  supposed  she 
was  a  Southerner.  She  never  spoke  of  herself  or  her 
family  except  to  say  that  she  was  a  widow  who  had  had 
sad  experiences  which  she  wanted  to  forget.  I  suppose 
Ansley  took  the  interest  I  secretly  had  in  her  for  sym 
pathy  with  him  in  his  love-affair,  for  the  next  day  he 
brought  the  matter  up  again,  and  he  did  so  every  day  of 
my  convalescence.  He  said  he  could  not  understand 

217 


THE    INNER   LAW 

why  she  had  quit  the  case,  for  she  would  make  no  ex 
planation  at  all.  Then  came  a  further  surprise.  I  was 
about  to  leave  the  hospital  when  Ansley  came,  looking  aw 
fully  depressed.  At  first  he  had  nothing  to  say,  then  he 
fairly  broke  down.  Strong  man  though  he  was,  he 
couldn't  hide  his  feelings. 

"Tve  lost  her,'  he  said.  'I've  lost  all  I  care  for  in 
the  world,  or  ever  can  care  for!' 

"Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  called  on  her 
and  proposed  marriage,  and  that  she  had  not  only  re 
fused  to  be  his  wife,  but  had  quickly  and  mysteriously 
left  the  city,  leaving  only  a  short  note  to  him  in  which 
she  begged  him  never  to  try  to  find  her.  I  was  sorry  for 
the  fellow,  for  he  was  one  of  the  finest  men  I  ever  met. 
I  was  sure  that  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  explain  much  to 
him;  but,  of  course,  could  not  tell  what  I  knew  about  the 
poor  woman.  Do  you  think,  Carter,  that  I  was  right  in 
my  supposition?  Could  this  beautiful  woman  be  the 
girl  I  saw  away  back  there  that  day?" 

Crofton  had  turned  his  face  aside;  he  said  nothing  for 
a  moment,  then  he  looked  up.  "I  am  sure  it  was  she," 
he  admitted.  "In  fact,  I  am  positive  of  it."  Haltingly, 
and  with  many  sensitive  reservations,  he  recounted  his 
meeting  with  Lydia  in  Washington. 

"That  settles  it,"  Farnham  said.  "She  was  dodging 
you  just  as  she  dodged  me,  and  as  she  perhaps  dodges 
everybody  in  any  way  connected  with  her  past.  I'm 
sorry  for  you,  Carter,  for  I  see  that  you  are  worked  up 
over  it.  However,  it  ought  to  be  a  satisfaction  to  you 
to  know  that  she  is  doing  so  well.  Ansley  told  me  that 
she  had  a  very  wealthy  clientele,  that  she  was  called  only 
on  important  cases,  made  a  great  deal  of  money,  and — 
that  brings  up  another  thing  about  her  which  he  admired 
so  much.  He  said  she  seemed  utterly  to  despise  money, 
and  gave  away  all  her  earnings  to  unfortunate  persons, 
particularly  poor,  struggling  girls  in  the  big  cities.  After 

218 


THE    INNER   LAW 

all,  I  don't  see  why  you  need  be  so  troubled  over  it.  She 
certainly  is  better  off  than  when  you  knew  her  in  her  rags 
in  that  log  cabin." 

"I  ruined  her  life,"  Crofton  broke  in,  desperately. 
"  Wonderful  woman  that  she  is — strong,  brave,  intellec 
tual,  beautiful — I  sent  her  adrift  ashamed  to  own  her 
name,  without  a  tie,  without  a  friend,  a  poor,  gentle  out 
cast,  righting  the  world,  while  I — while  I,  my  God!  Farn- 
ham — while  I  was  dawdling  my  damned  life  away  in 
Europe  and  growing  sick  from  the  very  stench  of  my 
putrifying  soul.  I  tell  you,  Farnham,  that  my  uncle  was 
right  in  what  he  feared  for  me.  There  is  such  a  thing  as 
actual  foreboding  of  future  events.  He  saw,  from  his 
own  experience,  what  was  coming  to  me,  and  tried  his 
best  to  avert  it.  Note  how  similar  our  cases  have  been. 
The  wreck  of  his  every  hope  and  entire  life  followed  that 
one  particular  act  of  his.  Has  not  just  as  great  misfor 
tune  befallen  me?  In  a  million  years  I  could  not  explain 
the  constant  agony  I  am  in.  Day  by  day  it  increases, 
grows  thicker,  blacker,  clutches  me  tighter.  I  am  in  hell 
every  waking  moment  of  my  existence.  I  try  this;  I 
test  that;  I  go  here;  I  go  there;  but  nothing  gives  me 
relief.  I  thought  perhaps  my  return  home  might  divert 
my  mind,  but  here  in  America  has  fallen  the  greatest  blow 
of  all.  Incredible  as  it  may  seem  to  you  or  any  other  man, 
yet  I  now  know  that  I  love  Lydia  Romley — love  her — love 
her  more  desperately  than  a  man  ever  loved  a  woman 
before.  God  has  made  me  love  her,  as  He  made  my  uncle 
love  his  son,  that  I  might  be  hated  by  her  in  the  end, 
as  my  uncle  was  hated  in  their  last  conscious  moments  by 
his  only  child  and  adored  wife.  Don't  think  I'm  crazy. 
I  am  not.  I  am  in  full  possession  of  all  my  reasoning 
powers.  Look  at  me  if  you  want  to  see  a  proof  of  hell 
made  visible  to  human  eyes.  The  physical  flames  the 
ancients  talked  about  would  be  balm  contrasted  to  the 
remorseful  fires  raging  within  me.  I  am  using  my  uncle's 

219 


THE   INNER   LAW 

words — his  very  words,  but  they  are  the  only  ones  that 
half  express  my  feelings." 

Farnham,  with  a  startled  look  of  concern  on  his  stolid 
face,  rose  and  put  his  hand  on  the  bowed  head  of  his 
friend.  "I  must  go  now,"  he  said.  "You  must  not  keep 
this  up,  Carter.  You'll  go  crazy,  if  you  do.  You  are 
not  well.  Your  restless,  irregular  habits  have  upset  your 
liver.  You  will  be  all  right  after  a  few  days  of  rest.  I'll 
bring  my  car  around  in  the  morning — I  have  an  appoint 
ment  this  afternoon — and  we'll  take  a  spin  around  town 
and  meet  some  of  your  old  friends.  You  must  not  cry 
over  spilt  milk.  What  is  done  is  done,  and  brooding 
over  it  won't  help  a  bit.  I've  done  a  few  things  in  my 
life  which  I'd  rather  undo,  but  I  don't  let  them  get  on  my 
nerves.  Life  is  too  short  and  there  is  too  much  to  be 
doing.  I  presume  it  is  that  blasted  artistic  tempera 
ment  which  you  have  to  an  abnormal  degree.  I  can  see 
now  that  your  uncle  was  right  in  wanting  you  to  marry 
the  girl,  and  of  course  I  was  wrong  in  advising  you  as  I 
did;  but  I  was  guided  by  the  best  light  I  had  at  the  time. 
Of  course,  if  I  had  dreamt  that  she  would  turn  out  to  be 
the  woman  she  now  seems  to  be,  I  would  have  taken  a 
different  view.  I  was  judging  her  by  her  sordid  surround 
ings.  She  must  have  good  blood  in  her  veins  away  back 
somewhere.  Now  get  your  mind  off  this  thing.  Good- 
by.  I'll  see  you  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE  day,  after  a  week  spent  in  Atlanta,  a  week  of 
social  torture  rather  than  pleasure,  Carter  decided 
to  surprise  his  brother  with  a  visit,  so  he  took  the  train 
to  Benton,  intending  to  walk  out  to  Henry's  farm  if  there 
was  no  conveyance  at  the  station.  The  train  arrived 
there  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  was  a  fine, 
cool  day  for  midsummer,  and  the  altitude  of  the  place 
gave  additional  crispness  to  the  air.  The  village  seemed 
to  have  changed  very  slightly.  It  was  no  larger  than  it 
was  when  Carter  had  last  seen  it.  At  the  edge  of  the 
platform  stood  a  rather  ramshackle  "hack,"  or  cab,  drawn 
by  a  thin  horse  in  the  care  of  a  negro  driver  holding  a  worn 
whip  and  wearing  a  slouch-hat  on  his  kinky  head. 

"Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Henry  Crofton  lives?"  Car 
ter  asked,  approaching  him,  bag  in  hand,  after  the  train 
had  gone  on. 

"Yas,  suh;  yas,  suh.  You  mean  de  ol'  Tom  Crofton 
farm.  I  know  it  pow'ful  well." 

"Henry  Crofton  is  my  brother,"  Carter  explained. 
"I  want  to  go  out  to  see  him.  Will  you  take  me?" 

"Yas,  suh;  yas,  suh.  Jump  in.  I  know  de  way — been 
over  de  road  mo'  times  'n  I  got  fingers  en  toes.  En  you 
is  Mr.  Henry's  brother?  Well,  well!  Folks  say — I  hear 
urn  say — dat  you  never  was  gwine  ter  come  back  ter  dis 
here  country  no  mo'." 

Crofton  ignored  this  tentative  comment  as  he  seated 
himself  in  the  vehicle  and  saw  the  negro  mount  the  front 
seat  and  place  his  bag  beside  him, 

•ii 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"I  hain't  seed  Mr.  Henry  fer  mo*  er  mont'  now,"  the 
negro  pursued,  whipping  his  horse  into  a  slow  trot  along 
the  red-clay  road.  "I  reckon  he  ain't  able  ter  git  about 
much  now." 

"You  mean  that  he  is  sick?"  Carter  asked. 

"I  don't  know  dat  he  is  ter  say  actually  flat  o'  his  back 
in  bed,  suh;  but  I  think  he  is  some  wuss'n  he  was.  He 
cert'ney  is  poly.  In  de  spring  he  used  ter  come  here  ter 
Benton  ter  see  Dr.  Manson  fer  treatment,  but  he  hain't 
been  here  fer  er  long  time  now.  I  hear  um  all  say  Mr. 
Henry  got  kidney  trouble,  en  dat  he  cayn't  nacherly 
expect  ter  las'  long,  but  he  cert'ney  holds  on.  I  hear  um 
all  say  he's  down  one  week  en  on  his  feet  de  nex*.  De 
trouble  wid  him  is  dat  he  hain't  got  no  mo'  money  ter 
buy  medicine  en  treatment  wid.  Doctors  dese  days  won't 
credit  nobody,  white  ur  black,  en  Mr.  Henry  done  spent 
all  he  ever  had  flyin'  round.  Folks  say  he  was  powerful 
rich  't  one  time." 

Crofton  did  not  encourage  the  driver  to  talk  further. 
What  he  had  heard  depressed  him,  and  this  depression 
seemed  to  be  increased  by  the  bare,  sterile  lands  through 
which  the  rugged  road  passed,  the  decaying  rail  fences 
on  either  side,  the  cabins  of  logs,  the  grain-cribs  of  pine 
poles,  and  other  signs  of  poverty.  Now  and  then  they 
met  a  farmer  on  a  wagon  of  wood,  lumber,  or  produce,  or 
passed  women  and  boys  plowing  or  hoeing,  barefooted  and 
half-clad,  in  the  fields.  The  placid  contentment  mirrored 
in  their  simple  faces  sent  shafts  of  vague  self-accusation 
to  the  tired  world-wanderer.  What  would  he  not  give 
to  be  like  them?  he  asked  himself  over  and  over.  They 
had  only  to  toil  in  the  open  air  and  sunshine  by  day,  eat 
bread  earned  by  the  honest  sweat  of  the  brow,  and  sleep 
like  tired  children  at  night — their  debt  to  the  law  of  life 
fully  paid.  Such  persons,  he  told  himself,  could  meet  grief, 
misfortune — death  itself — with  the  equanimity  of  a  faith 
incomprehensible  by  any  process  of  intellectual  reasoning. 

222 


THE   INNER   LAW 

Presently  they  reached  the  vicinity  of  Mrs.  Romley's 
cabin.  There  was  only  a  little  curve  in  the  road  to  make 
and  the  spot  would  be  in  sight.  Carter  stopped  the  driver, 
telling  him  he  would  get  out  and  walk,  and  asking  him 
to  drive  on  and  wait  at  the  farm-house  gate  with  his  bag. 

Finding  himself  free  from  observation,  Carter  made 
a  short  cut  through  the  bushes  till  he  came  in  view  of  the 
cabin.  It  was  unoccupied,  and  surrounded  by  a  riotous 
growth  of  weeds  and  tall,  blooming  sunflowers.  The 
crude,  wooden-hinged  door-shutter  had  fallen  inward. 
The  upper  half  of  the  mud-and-stick  chimney  had  top 
pled  down.  The  plastering  of  clay  between  the  logs  had 
been  washed  away  by  the  rain.  The  well-curbing  had 
disappeared,  and  branches  of  trees  and  old  rails  had  been 
thrown  over  the  opening  to  prevent  accidents  to  straying 
hogs  or  cattle.  He  walked  into  the  cabin,  the  rotting 
planks  of  the  floor  breaking  beneath  his  feet,  and  with  a 
sinking  heart  looked  about  him.  There  in  that  sordid 
room  he  had  actually  overpowered  the  helpless  girl  whom 
he  now  loved  and  knew  to  be  his  superior.  There  in  the 
corner,  filled  with  cobwebs  and  the  refuse  of  rats  and  mice, 
the  crude  bed  had  stood — that  bed  which  had  been 
stamped  on  his  brain  during  all  those  years  of  reckless 
living  and  vain  seeking  of  pleasure.  He  went  to  the  door 
and  looked  out  toward  his  brother's  house.  How  could 
he  go  on  and  attend  to  that  dismal  duty  in  his  present 
frame  of  mind?  What  was  the  use  to  live,  anyway? 
He  put  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat  and  felt  the 
bottle  containing  the  morphine  tablets.  He  took  it  out 
and  rattled  the  contents. 

"Enough  to  put  me  to  sleep  for  ever!"  he  muttered; 
"and  what  more  appropriate  spot  could  be  found  than 
this?" 

A  shudder  ran  through  him,  leaving  him  cold  from 
head  to  foot.  No,  he  could  not  do  it — not  yet,  anyway, 
for  there  might  be  something  beyond.  He  half  believed 

223 


THE   INNER   LAW 

there  was,  for  if  he  couldn't  kill  consciousness  now,  if 
he  couldn't  kill  memory  now,  how  could  it  ever  be  done? 
Yes,  he  was  afraid — frankly  afraid.  His  uncle  must  have 
been  afraid,  too — afraid  to  meet  the  outraged  spirits  of 
his  son  and  his  wife,  if  not  to  see  the  face  of  an  offended 
God. 

Putting  the  bottle  back  into  his  pocket,  he  stepped 
down  into  the  yard  and  plunged  through  the  weeds  tow 
ard  the  farm-house.  He  found  the  cabman  waiting  at 
the  gate,  and  dismissed  him.  Taking  his  bag,  he  entered 
and  started  toward  the  house.  Upon  everything  in  sight 
lay  ruin  and  desolation.  The  once  beautiful  lawn  where 
he  and  his  cousin  Tom  had  played  ball,  tennis,  and 
croquet  with  the  young  people  of  the  neighborhood  was 
literally  a  thicket  of  bushes  and  vines  through  which  only 
a  narrow  foot-path  led  to  the  porch  steps.  The  fences, 
summer-house,  and  rustic  seats  were  gone,  having  been 
used  for  firewood  by  the  careless  inmates  of  the  house  or 
rotted  on  the  dank  ground.  The  green  blinds  to  the 
windows  had  disappeared,  the  small  panes  of  glass  were 
broken,  the  paint  had  been  washed  from  the  weather- 
boarding.  A  few  chickens  and  ducks  stalked  and  waddled 
about  an  unclean  yard  in  the  rear. 

As  he  put  his  foot  on  the  lower  step  of  the  porch  he  felt 
the  board  give  beneath  his  weight,  and  he  stepped  upon 
the  remaining  ones  with  care  as  he  ascended.  The  door 
was  closed;  there  was  no  sign  of  human  life  about  the 
place.  Taking  hold  of  the  loose  brass  handle  of  the  old 
bell,  Carter  drew  it  toward  him,  hearing  the  dismal  ring 
far  back  in  the  house. 

Presently  the  door  was  opened  by  a  slatternly,  middle- 
aged  woman  who  was  barefooted  and  wore  a  soiled  ging 
ham  dress.  She  shrank  in  evident  surprise  at  the  sight 
of  a  well-dressed  stranger,  her  pale-blue  eyes  rolling  help 
lessly. 

"Is  Mr.  Crofton  at  home?"  Carter  asked. 

224 


THE   INNER   LAW 

Turning  her  head,  the  scant  yellow  hair  of  which  was 
fastened  in  a  tight,  unbecoming  knot  behind,  she  glanced 
through  the  cheerless,  empty  hall  toward  a  closed  door 
in  the  rear.  "Yes;  he  is  lying  down,"  she  said. 

"I'd  like  to  see  him.  You  may  tell  him,  if  you  please, 
that  it  is  his  brother." 

The  woman  flushed  deeply,  dropped  her  eyes,  and  wiped 
her  trembling  red  hands  on  her  ragged  apron.  "You  say 
you  are — are — "  She  went  no  further.  He  saw  that  she 
was  greatly  excited,  pale  splotches  appearing  in  her  red 
cheeks. 

"Yes,  I'm  his  brother  Carter.  I've  just  got  back  from 
Europe." 

She  left  him  standing  in  the  doorway  and  hastily  sham 
bled  along  the  hall  to  a  bedroom  and  entered.  It  was  the 
room  he  had  once  occupied.  Carter  heard  low  voices,  one 
of  which  he  recognized  as  Henry's.  He  couldn't  hear  the 
words  that  were  spoken,  but  there  was  a  note  of  petulant 
complaint  in  the  masculine  voice.  Was  it  possible  that 
this  dejected-looking  woman  was  his  brother's  mistress? 
he  asked  himself,  gloomily.  It  must  be  so,  he  thought; 
and  this,  then,  was  the  last  of  the  gallant,  devil-may-care 
Henry's  conquests,  a  woman  who  had  left  her  husband 
and  home  for  this.  He  saw  her  returning.  She  was  still 
frightened  and  abashed. 

"He  says  come  in,"  she  faltered.     "He's  in  bed." 

There  were  no  curtains  or  blinds  to  the  windows  of  the 
room,  no  rugs  or  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  no  furniture  ex 
cept  the  bed  in  one  corner  and  a  table  and  two  chairs  near 
it.  On  a  soiled  mattress,  his  head  slightly  raised  by  a 
ragged  pillow,  lay  the  sick  man.  And  as  he  looked  upon 
him  Carter  was  conscious  of  the  sudden  reflection  that  not 
a  single  recognizable  feature  remained  in  the  greenish-pale 
mask  of  skin  drawn  over  the  facial  bones.  The  iron-gray 
beard  was  long  and  tangled,  and  the  thin  hair  of  the  head 
was  only  a  scant  fringe  to  a  withered  bald  pate.  Henry 
15  225 


THE   INNER   LAW 

turned  on  his  side  with  evident  difficulty,  and  held  out  a 
thin  hand  the  nails  of  which  had  not  been  cared  for. 

"How  are  you,  Cart?"  he  smiled  in  a  ghastly  way,  dis 
playing  his  brown,  broken  teeth.  "Saw  in  the  paper  you 
were  back.  Thought  you  never  would  land  on  this  side 
of  the  water  again.  You  certainly  find  me  down,  old  boy. 
I  happen  to  be  a  little  bit  worse  right  now  than  usual. 
I'm  generally  able  to  potter  about  my  farm  a  little,  but 
for  the  last  week  I've  been  unable  to  walk  at  all.  Marty, 
give  him  a  seat." 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  you  ill,"  Carter  answered,  lamely, 
and  found  himself  unable  to  say  more.  Henry's  failure 
to  introduce  the  woman  was  significant  and  confirmed 
his  first  impression. 

Lifting  a  water-pail  from  one  of  the  chairs  and  wiping 
it  with  a  towel,  the  woman  placed  it  near  the  bed,  and 
Carter  sat  down,  a  desolate  chill  creeping  over  him.  The 
whole  thing  seemed  a  terrible  nightmare.  Was  it  possible 
that  he  himself  had  been  living  like  a  prince  abroad 
while  his  only  brother  lay  dying  like  a  beast  in  a  stall? 

"I  thought  you  might  write  a  fellow  a  line  now  and 
then,  once  in  a  great  while;  but  you  never  did,"  Henry 
complained.  "I'd  have  written  to  you — by  George!  I 
reckon  I'd  have  boned  you  for  the  loan  of  a  few  dollars 
to  tide  me  over  this  present  trouble,  but  I  didn't  know 
how  to  reach  you.  Farnham  made  some  fool  excuse  or 
other  when  I  mentioned  it  to  him  one  day,  and  Milicent — 
well,  I've  cut  her  clean  off  my  list.  I'd  see  her  dead  and 
in  her  box  before  I'd  ask  a  favor  of  her,  even  a  little  one 
like  that.  But,  Lord!  times  are  hard;  they  surely  are, 
Cart!  Not  like  the  old  days  when  we  children  had  the 
old  man's  keen  brain  to  supply  us  with  pocket  change. 
But  I  reckon  I  ought  not  to  complain — I  am  the  black 
sheep  of  the  lot,  the  bad  egg,  and  always  was.  You  held 
on  to  what  was  left  you,  and  added  to  it,  and  Milly  she's 
done  well  with  her  part.  But,  Lord !  I  wouldn't  have  the 

226 


THE    INNER   LAW 

heart  that's  in  that  woman  for  worlds.  But  I  won't  talk 
about  her.  It  makes  me  mad  even  to  hear  her  name 
mentioned.  You  must  pay  us  a  visit,  old  chap.  Uncle's 
old  room  has  a  bed  in  it,  and  we  can  give  you  some  plain 
country  cooking.  Marty" — here  Henry's  stare  became 
unsteady — "is  a  good  plain  cook.  Our  pantry  isn't 
exactly  overloaded  with  the  fat  of  the  land,  but  we  can 
manage  somehow.  You  used  to  like  young  frying  chickens 
and  fresh  eggs,  and  we've  got  plenty  of  them,  and  good 
butter  and  milk.  Our  cow  has  just  had  a  calf  and  is  in 
a  fine  condition,  pasture-grazed." 

The  bare  thought  of  being  a  guest  in  such  a  place  was 
most  repellent  to  Carter,  and  yet  he  knew  there  was  noth 
ing  for  him  to  do  but  to  accept  the  invitation,  for  a  few 
days,  anyway. 

"I  came  to  stay  awhile,"  he  said,  "though  I  had  no 
idea  you  were — under  the  weather  like  this.  I  suppose 
you  have  a  doctor?" 

"A  sort  of  makeshift,  Dr.  Manson,"  Henry  sneered. 
"I  don't  like  him,  and  he  doesn't  like  me.  He  is  as  stingy 
and  grasping  as  Milly,  or  any  other  miser.  I  owe  him  a 
little  back  pay,  you  see,  and  he  treats  me  like  a  pauper. 
As  soon  as  he  found  out  I  hadn't  any  more  money,  had 
mortgaged  my  farm  up  to  the  hilt,  and  owed  a  few  bills 
here  and  there,  he  quit  calling  regularly.  He  was  here 
yesterday,  though,  and  the  day  before,  and  said  he  would 
come  back  to-day.  I  can't  see  why  he  is  coming  so  often 
now  when  he  neglected  me  so  much  a  month  ago.  If  I 
didn't  know  Milly  so  well  I'd  think  maybe  she  had  heard 
I  was  down  and  agreed  to  pay  him.  Say,  you  haven't 
been  to  him,  have  you,  Cart?" 

"No;  I  don't  know  him,"  Carter  answered,  "but  I 
want  to  pay  him  for  you,  and  I  will  do  it  gladly.  In  fact, 
anything  you  need  I  shall  get  at  once.  You  must  let  me 
advance  you  some  money,  Henry." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that,  old  boy?"  The  wasted 

227 


THE   INNER   LAW 

features  were  working  under  stress  of  rising  emotion. 
1 '  Marty,  did  you  hear  that  ?  Did  you  hear  what  he  said  ?' ' 

The  woman  had  turned  her  perturbed  face  toward  the 
window.  A  mumbling,  unintelligible  sound  came  from 
her  lips,  and  the  visitor  saw  her  untidy  head  nodding. 

"It  is  good  of  you,  Cart,  old  boy,"  the  sick  man  fal 
tered,  his  voice  catching  in  his  throat  like  that  of  a  happy 
child.  "You  came  just  in  time,  so  you  did.  Well,  you 
won't  lose  by  it — I  don't  somehow  believe  that  a  fellow 
ever  loses  by  extending  a  helping  hand  to  another — and 
then,  after  all,  you  and  I  were  born  from  the  same  parents. 
La!  doesn't  it  seem  a  long,  long  time  since  we  were  kids 
in  that  fine  old  house,  wearing  nice  nifty  clothes,  with  all 
those  servants  at  our  beck  and  call?  I  sometimes  look 
back  and  wonder,  wonder,  wonder.  Even  Milly,  snarl 
ing  old  maid  as  she  now  is,  was — well,  she  was  a  sweet, 
gentle  sort  of  a  girl.  When  she  was  about  eighteen  I  re 
member  I  was  awfully  proud  of  her.  Nobody  ever  would 
have  thought  then  that  she'd  turn  out  to  be  a  regular  old 
hag  hoarding  a  pile  of  gold  in  a  big,  empty  house,  and  as 
hard  as  flint  against  the  unfortunate  ones  of  her  own  sex. 
Oh,  I'll  tell  you  about  that — I'll  tell  you  about  the  way 
she  treated  Marty." 

At  this  juncture  the  woman  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
muttered  something  indistinctly  and  stalked  from  the 
room. 

"She  didn't  want  to  hear  it,"  Henry  said,  his  eyes 
dumbly  following  the  woman  and  remaining  for  a  mo 
ment  on  the  door  which  had  closed  behind  her.  "Marty 
has  got  a  great  big  heart  in  her,  Cart.  She  holds  out  all 
right  at  times,  and  then  again  she  breaks  down  all  of  a 
sudden.  She  may  hold  in  now  because  she  has  to  fix 
up  for  you,  and  the  best  thing  for  her  is  to  be  busy.  I've 
found  that  out.  Of  course,  you  know,  or  you  can  guess, 
Cart,  that  she  and  I  are  not,  to  say — exactly,  married?" 

Carter  nodded,  "I  thought  that  might  be  the  case," 

228 


THE   INNER   LAW 

he  said,  as  gently  as  he  knew  how  to  speak.  "I  had 
never  heard  of  your  marrying  any  one  else,  and  natu 
rally-" 

"Well,  never  mind,"  Henry  broke  in,  almost  peevishly, 
' '  there  is  some  justification  for  the  whole  thing — some  for 
her,  anyway.  You  know  me,  Cart ;  you  know  how  I  was 
all  along  with  women.  Well,  I'm  not  sure  but  old  age 
and  ill  health  were  the  only  things  that  forced  me  to  call 
a  halt,  even  one  like  this.  But  now  I'm  going  to  be 
pretty  frank.  Out  of  all  the  affairs  I  was  mixed  up  in,  the 
one  with  Marty  bothered  me  the  most.  I  met  her  over 
the  other  side  of  the  mountain  and  made  love  to  her  away 
back  when  she  was  a  bright,  happy  young  girl.  I  didn't 
do  anything  wrong  then — I  swear  it,  Cart — I  swear  it  to 
you  as  a  man.  It  may  be  because  I  didn't  have  just  the 
opportunity,  but  I  did  make  love  to  her,  and  I  got  her 
to  love  me.  Then  I  went  off  and  left  her. 

"A  young  farmer  wanted  her  to  marry  him.  He  was 
honest,  upright,  a  hard  worker,  and  steady.  Her  mother 
and  father  wanted  her  to  take  him,  and  they  browbeat 
her,  argued  with  her,  and  threatened  till  finally  they  got 
her  to  marry  the  fellow.  I  happened  to  go  back  near  her 
home  about  five  years  after  she  was  married  and  acciden 
tally  met  her.  Oh,  well,  Cart,  I  may  as  well  tell  it  all; 
she  was  still  good-looking,  in  love  with  me  even  more 
than  she  had  been,  and  I  was  just  a  natural  man.  She 
sneaked  out  and  met  me  often.  She  simply  couldn't 
stand  her  husband — said  she  felt  like  screaming  when  he 
laid  his  hands  on  her  or  when  she  had  to  be  alone  with 
him,  and  I  found  that  I  liked  her  more  than  any  other 
woman  I'd  ever  been  intimate  with. 

"I'd  come  here  to  live  with  Uncle  Tom,  and  she  came 
crying  one  day  and  begged  me  to  stick  to  her — said  she 
had  left  her  home  and  was  staying  with  a  cousin,  a  lonely 
widow,  near  us.  She  declared  she  would  drown  herself 
if  I  left  her — that  she  never  loved  anybody  else,  and 

229 


THE   INNER   LAW 

didn't  care  what  happened  if  her  life  had  to  go  on  like  it 
was. 

"I  went  to  see  her  husband  to  tell  him  I  was  ready  to 
marry  her  if  he  would  let  her  have  a  divorce.  I  expected 
to  be  shot,  but  it  didn't  matter  to  me.  I'd  just  lost  my 
last  dollar  in  cotton-futures,  and  didn't  care  a  rap  whether 
I  lived  or  died.  The  fellow  happened  not  to  be  the 
shooting  sort.  He  was  of  the  old-fashioned,  rigid,  re 
ligious  order.  He  was  as  white  as  a  sheet  and  leaned 
back  in  his  hard,  cold  sanctimony  and  told  me  Marty 
could  do  as  she  liked  with  me;  but  he  would  do  his  duty 
to  God.  He  believed  divorce  was  an  unpardonable  sin, 
and  he  wouldn't  get  one  himself  nor  allow  her  to  have  one. 
Said  he  would  take  her  back  any  time,  but  that  was  all 
he  would  do. 

"Well,  Uncle  Tom  got  it  all  out  of  me.  He  wormed 
it  out  of  me  one  night  when  he  and  I  were  together.  I 
expected  him  to  kick  me  out  of  the  house,  but  he  didn't. 
In  fact,  he  acted  awfully  queer,  I  thought,  for  in  his  way 
he  was  religious,  too.  Poor  old  man!  He  kept  shaking 
his  head  and  sighing  while  I  was  talking,  and  he  was 
never  in  his  life  so  gentle  with  me  as  he  was  that  night. 
He  treated  her  nice,  too,  and  she  was  astonished  as  much 
as  I  was,  if  not  more.  She  had  come  over  one  day  to 
see  me  and  was  out  at  the  barn,  crying  at  a  terrible  rate. 
He  saw  her  and  came  out  and  talked  good  and  kind  to 
her.  By  George !  it  was  a  pretty  sight !  He  put  his  old 
arm  around  her  and  petted  her  and  did  his  best  to  com 
fort  her.  He  went  to  see  her  husband,  too,  but  could 
do  nothing  with  him.  Then  what  did  I  do?  What  do 
you  suppose  I  did,  Cart?  I  rented  a  little  cottage  half  a 
mile  down  the  road,  bought  a  little  furniture  with  some 
money  uncle  let  me  have,  and  Marty  and  I  moved  in. 
You  may  think  I  acted  wrongly,  considering  public  opin 
ion,  but  that  was  all  that  was  left  for  me  to  do,  and  I 
was  plumb  fagged  out  and  wanted  peace  and  quiet  and 

230 


THE    INNER    LAW 

home  comfort.  Of  course,  none  of  the  neighbors  would 
come  about  us — they  cut  us  dead;  but  we  were  happy. 
Her  husband  moved  away  to  escape  the  talk,  I  reckon, 
and  we  were  not  bothered  by  the  sight  of  him,  and  uncle 
— say,  Cart,  he  acted  white;  that's  the  word,  'white.' 
He  used  to  come  over  of  an  evening  and  sit  and  smoke 
his  pipe  and  talk  to  us  in  his  slow,  simple  way.  It  was 
always  about  religion,  and  God,  and  forgiveness,  and  re 
demption,  and  being  sorry  for  this,  and  atoning  for  that. 
I  swear,  with  his  long  white  beard  and  hair  he  looked 
like  one  of  the  saintly  old  patriarchs  of  biblical  days. 
Marty  and  I  hardly  knew  what  he  was  talking  about 
half  the  time,  but  we  humored  him  by  listening.  He 
fed  us — he  was  hard  run  himself,  but  he  fed  us,  and  used 
to  call  us  his  children,  and  it  was  funny;  but  every  time 
he'd  come  he'd  apologize  in  the  meekest  way  and  smile 
wistfully  and  say  he  knew  we  did  not  want '  Old  Gandpa ' 
there.  I  remember  one  night,  when  we  were  all  three 
seated  in  the  moonlight  in  front  of  the  little  house,  that 
some  mention  of  Marty's  husband  was  made,  and  uncle 
fancied  she  was  a  little  bit  worried  over  treating  him  bad, 
and  so  he  set  in  to  comfort  her.  I  wish  I  had  written  down 
in  black  and  white  what  he  said.  I'd  certainly  read  it 
over,  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone.  Lord !  that  talk  was 
beautiful!  It  set  Marty  to  crying,  I  remember,  and  it 
was  all  I  could  do  to  hold  in,  though  I  didn't  exactly 
know  why. 

"Well,  shortly  after  that  he  was  taken  down  so  sick 
that  he  couldn't  take  care  of  himself,  and  we  came  here 
to  live  with  him  and  nurse  him.  It  made  him  happy. 
He  said  so  over  and  over.  Marty  fairly  worshiped  him, 
for  he  was  always,  always — dying  man  though  he  was, 
Cart — he  was  always  trying  to  keep  her  from  feeling  bad 
over  what  had  happened  to  her. 

"Then  Milly  heard  of  uncle's  low  condition  and  came. 
Humph!  she  came!  She  dropped  down  into  our  peace- 

231 


THE    INNER   LAW 

fid  circle  one  day,  like  some  haughty,  perfumed,  powdered, 
and  silk-dressed  she-devil.  She  turned  up  her  nose  at 
Marty,  and  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  dog  under  her 
feet.  She  said  a  few  cold  words  to  uncle.  She  lectured 
me  about  the  way  I'd  lost  my  part  of  the  estate,  and  then 
whisked  off  to  Atlanta  to  her  damned  old  hermitage, 
where,  thank  God,  she's  been  ever  since.  I  didn't  notify 
her  when  uncle  died.  We  didn't  want  her  about.  It  was 
all  sad  enough,  anyway.  Lord!  how  we  missed  him!  He 
had  got  to  be  a  sort  of  baby  to  me  and  Marty  in  his  gentle 
helplessness.  He  never  complained  once;  he  was  always 
the  same  quiet,  gentle  old  man,  constantly  excusing  him 
self  for  troubling  us  in  the  slightest  thing  we  did  for  him. 
He  left  me  the  farm  in  his  will,  of  course,  but  we  missed 
him  so  much  that  we  didn't  think  much  about  it.  It  was 
awful  the  way  Marty  took  his  death.  She  cried  night 
and  day  for  a  month  after  the  burial.  We  didn't  have 
any  service  at  the  church,  for  uncle  had  quit  going;  but 
we  had  a  country  preacher  come  and  say  a  few  words 
and  read  over  the  coffin  in  the  library.  The  room  was 
full  of  men;  not  a  woman  came — not  a  damned  one  dark 
ened  the  door.  Do  you  know  why?  It  was  to  keep  from 
meeting  Marty.  The  men  could  nib  against  me,  but  the 
women  pulled  their  saintly  skirts  back  from  her.  I  was 
sorry  for  Marty,  and  loved  and  pitied  her  more  that  day 
than  I  ever  had  as  she  sat  in  that  crowd  all  by  herself 
in  her  black,  the  only  female  under  this  big  roof.  Both 
her  ma  and  pa  had  died,  and  she  hadn't  shed  a  tear;  but 
her  heart  was  broke  when  uncle  passed  away.  Do  you 
know  I  wish — there  is  one  thing  I'd  like  to  have,  and  that 
is  I'd  like  to  live  long  enough  to  make  somebody  regret 
my  death  as — as  we  do  his.  It  was  just  his  way,  his 
character,  I  reckon,  that  makes  us  feel  as  we  do  about 
him  now  that  he  is  gone  for  ever." 


CHAPTER  VI 

HERE  the  sick  man  had  a  fit  of  coughing  which  lasted 
several  minutes,  and,  glancing  toward  the  door, 
Carter  saw  Marty  silently  motioning  to  him  to  come  to 
her.  He  rose  and  went  out.  Seeing  him  coming,  she 
turned  and  led  him  into  the  dining-room,  where  he  found 
that  she  had  spread  a  clean  but  ragged  cloth  at  the  end 
of  the  old  mahogany  table  and  placed  some  freshly  cooked 
food  upon  it. 

"I  know  you  must  be  hungry,"  she  said.  "I  hope  you 
will  excuse  this  poor  meal." 

"It  is  just  what  I  like,"  he  said  in  a  kindly  tone.  He 
noted  that  she  had  put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings  and  a 
clean  apron. 

She  left  him  eating  the  fresh  fried  eggs  and  bacon  and 
hot  bread  with  cold  milk.  He  wanted  to  detain  her,  to 
ask  her  some  questions,  but  she  was  very  shy,  and  re 
mained  out  of  the  room  till  he  rose  from  the  table;  then 
with  lowered  head  and  reluctant  step,  she  came  in  to  re 
move  the  few  simple  dishes. 

"I  was  a  little  afraid,"  he  began,  "that  my  brother  was 
talking  longer  than  was  good  for  him  just  now." 

He  saw  her  nod  affirmatively,  but  she  made  no 
sound. 

"It  is  best,  I  presume,  not  to  let  him  get  excited?"  he 
went  on,  tentatively. 

"Yes;  the  doctor  said  not  to  let  him  talk  much,"  she 
said;  "but  he  will  talk  when  he  gets  started — nothing 
will  stop  him." 

333 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,"  Carter  said,  "what  the  doctor 
thinks  about  my  brother's  condition." 

"He  says  he's  dying,"  she  answered  in  a  low,  husky 
voice. 

"Dying?"  Carter  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

The  woman  nodded.  "Yes,  he's  dying.  Dr.  Manson 
says  he  has  done  all  he  can.  Henry  doesn't  like  him,  but 
he  has  treated  us  fair.  He  told  me  a  month  ago  that  there 
wasn't  the  slightest  hope.  Henry  can't  keep  a  thing  on 
his  stomach.  The  doctor  expects  him  to  die  every  day 
— that's  why  he  comes  often  now.  He  says  Henry  will 
go  out  like  a  candle — just  stop  breathing,  and  he  says — 
he  says  Henry  won't  suffer.  Do — do  you  reckon  he's  just 
talking  to  comfort  me?" 

"I — I  don't  really  know."  Carter  hardly  knew  what 
he  was  saying.  Dying?  That  one  word  seemed  to  fill 
his  entire  consciousness.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
Henry,  his  only  brother,  the  happy,  rollicking  playmate 
of  the  long  ago,  was  on  the  brink  of  actual  annihilation? 
And  to  go  out  like  that — like  that,  in  that  sinister  nest 
of  tragedy!  as  if  it  were  a  fitting  place  for  a  Crofton  to 
die  in. 

The  woman  had  left  the  room  with  a  tray  of  dishes. 
He  heard  her  shuffling  feet  in  the  kitchen.  The  fear  came 
to  him  that  something  was  wrong  with  his  own  heart. 
He  took  his  left  wrist  between  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
and  tested  his  pulse,  or  tried  to  do  so.  It  appeared  to  be 
throbbing  only  faintly.  This  was  fancy,  of  course — the 
autosuggestion  of  an  imaginative  man,  but  it  clung  to  him 
like  a  gruesome  reality.  He  next  fancied  that  he  felt  the 
germs  of  his  brother's  disease  gnawing  at  his  own  kidneys. 
He  tried  to  remember  if  the  disease  was  contagious,  but 
in  his  present  agitation  he  could  not  do  so.  The  woman 
returned  to  fold  up  the  table-cloth,  and  with  a  flare  of 
dumb  despair  in  his  eyes  he  tried  to  think  of  something 
to  say  to  her.  A  dead  man  had  taught  him  a  lesson,  and 

234 


THE   INNER   LAW 

he  wanted  to  emulate  that  dead  man's  example  in  his 
treatment  of  this  stricken  woman.  He  wanted  her  to 
think  of  him  as  she  did  of  Thomas  Crofton. 

''I  am  sorry  for  you,  Marty,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I 
could  say  something  or  do  something  to  help  you  in  your 
trouble.  We  must  be  friends" — here  he  thought  again 
of  his  uncle,  and  added — "we  are  more  than  that  already, 
though,  for  we  are  brother  and  sister.  In  God's  sight 
we  are  that,  you  know." 

He  saw  her  start  and  stare  with  wide-open  eyes,  then 
her  face  began  to  fill  with  emotion;  he  saw  her  breast 
rise  high  and  sink  quiveringly.  She  started  to  speak, 
but  choked  up  and  coughed  deeply  in  a  brave  effort  to 
hide  it. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  he  heard  her  half  whisper 
after  a  moment's  silence,  "thank  you." 

"Did  the  doctor  leave  any  directions  which  have  not 
yet  been  carried  out?"  he  asked  her. 

Here,  with  the  folded  cloth  on  her  arm,  she  met  his 
eyes  with  her  own  in  a  steady,  desperate  stare.  "All  but 
one  thing,"  she  blurted  out.  "I've  tried  and  tried,  but 
I  can't  do  it.  I've  prayed  to  God  to  give  me  the  strength 
to  do  it,  and  still  I  can't.  I  try,  but  I  break  down." 

"Is  it  something  which  requires  strength?"  he  inquired, 
thinking  that  it  might  perhaps  pertain  to  the  lifting  of  the 
sick  man. 

' '  No.    The  doctor  says  Henry  ought  to  be  told. ' ' 

"Told?    You  mean—" 

"  Dr.  Manson  says  somebody  has  got  to  tell  Henry  that 
there  is  no  hope.  He  says  if  I  don't  he  will  have  to  do 
it.  He  is  an  old-fashioned  doctor,  and  he  says  he  con 
siders  it  his  religious  duty  not  to  let  a  dying  person  be 
ignorant  of  his  condition.  Every  time  he  comes  he  asks 
me  if  I've  told  Henry,  and  yesterday  he  said  if  I  hadn't 
told  him  when  he  got  here  to-day  he  would  himself.  He 
thinks  I  can  do  it,  but  I  can't — I  can't!  Henry  has  no 

235 


THE   INNER   LAW 

idea  it  is  so  bad;  he  thinks  he'll  get  well.  Oh,  I  can't 
tell  him!  I  can't!" 

"Perhaps  I  can  help  you,"  Carter  plunged,  impulsively. 
"If  you  want  me  to,  I  will  tell  him  what  the  doctor  said. 
I  understand  how  you  feel  about  it." 

Marty  said  nothing,  but  he  saw  a  surprised  flare  of 
gratitude  in  her  dumb  eyes.  She  left  him  to  go  to  Henry, 
and  presently  tiptoed  back.  "He's  asleep  now,"  she 
whispered.  "Maybe  you'd  like  to  go  to  your  room. 
It  is  ready." 

He  followed  her  to  the  open  door  of  the  room,  where 
she  left  him,  and  he  entered.  The  first  slant  of  the  after 
noon  sun  came  in  at  the  curtainless  windows  and  fell  on 
the  bare  floor.  There  were  only  a  wash-stand,  a  bed,  a 
chair,  and  his  costly,  foreign-made  bag  in  the  big  room. 
The  bag,  like  a  traveled,  isolated  thing,  scarred  by  bril 
liant  hotel  advertisements  in  many  lands,  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  room.  A  yellow  wasp  was  buzzing  against  a 
dingy  pane  of  glass;  a  black,  red-eyed  spider  watched  it 
from  its  web  in  a  corner  of  the  mullions,  perhaps  alarmed 
at  the  sight  of  an  enemy  too  large  and  desperately  ruth 
less  for  prey.  Why  was  it  that  Carter  gently  raised  the 
sash  of  the  window  and  with  his  handkerchief  softly 
brushed  the  wasp  down  to  the  airy  port  of  escape?  Then 
he  turned  to  bathe  his  face  and  hands  at  the  wash-stand 
in  the  cooling  well-water.  How  strange!  he  mused,  that 
he  should  be  giving  attention'^  to  his  mere  body  when  the 
great  destroyer  of  bodies  had  almost  exterminated  all 
that  was  left  of  the  once  gay,  care-free  Henry  Crofton. 
Henry  was  dying,  and  he  himself  had  to  die.  To  die — 
what  a  word,  what  a  short  word  to  mean  so  much! 

As  he  was  going  out  he  saw  the  doctor,  a  portly,  gray- 
bearded  old  man,  leaving  the  house  and  trudging  gravely 
toward  a  buggy  at  the  gate.  Carter  called  to  him  softly, 
and  he  turned,  smiled  casually,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Your  brother  told  me  you  were  here,"  he  said.  "I 

236 


THE   INNER   LAW 

used  to  know  your  father  rather  well  away  back  just  after 
the  war.  You  don't  resemble  him  much,  even  as  he  was 
in  his  younger  days." 

"I've  been  told,  doctor  —  my  brother's  —  companion 
says  that  you  see  no  hope  in  his  case,"  Carter  said,  un 
willing  to  talk  of  less  important  matters. 

* '  No,  none  at  all, "  was  the  prompt  reply.  ' '  No  medical 
skill  on  earth  could  even  prolong  his  life  beyond  a  few 
days.  I  am  doing  no  good  at  all,  but  my  presence  some 
times  helps  the  grieving  ones  at  such  a  time,  and  I  al 
ways  try  to  be  on  hand.  There  is  another  thing.  I  feel 
it  to  be  my  Christian  duty,  Mr.  Crofton,  as  I  think  Marty 
has  already  told  you,  when  a  patient  is  so  completely  in 
possession  of  the  reasoning  faculties  as  is  the  case  with 
your  brother,  to  inform  him  of  his  fate,  and  I  always 
insist  upon  it.  She  can't  do  it,  it  seems,  but  she  says  you 
have  promised  to  mention  it  to  him." 

"Yes;  I  shall  do  it  at  once,"  Carter  said.  "It  seems 
that  he  has  little  idea  of  the  gravity  of  his  condition." 

"No;  he  is  full  of  hope;  in  fact,  more  so  since  you've 
come  than  ever.  Well,  I'm  glad  you  will  attend  to  that 
matter.  It  is  one  thing  I  never  leave  out  if  I  can  help 
it.  Civilization  gives  even  condemned  criminals  a  chance 
to  prepare  for  the  end.  Why  should  a  Christian  physician 
neglect  his  sacred  duty  in  that  line?" 

"I  shall  do  it  as  well  as  I  can,"  Carter  promised.  "I 
want  to  say,  too,  doctor,  that  I  wish  to  pay  all  my  brother's 
bills,  and  I  will  do  so  as  soon  as  they  are  sent  to  me.  I'm 
grateful  to  you  for  your  attention  to  him." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  the  old  man  answered.  "I  don't 
know  that  I  was  expecting  pay.  I  try  to  do  my  duty  to 
humanity  without  thinking  of  what  I  am  to  get  out  of  it. 
If  you  had  not  spoken  of  your  wishes  you'd  never  have 
heard  from  me.  Good  day.  I  may  call  to-morrow;  but 
I  will  be  of  no  medical  service  at  all.  His  death  is  only 
a  question  of  a  very  short  time." 

237 


THE    INNER    LAW 

Carter  walked  to  the  gate  with  him.  "Do  you  think 
if  I  telegraphed  to  Atlanta  for  a  private  nurse  that  it 
would  do  any  good  at  all?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"No;  besides,  you'd  hardly  have  time  to  get  one  here, 
and  a  new  face  might  upset  him.  Marty  is  doing  all  that 
can  be  done.  She  is  suffering  awfully,  but  she  doesn't 
show  it  to  him." 

When  the  doctor  had  disappeared  down  the  hot,  sun 
baked  road,  Carter  went  back  to  the  house  and  stood  on 
the  porch,  wondering  what  he  would  do  next.  The  gloom 
upon  him  was  like  some  palpable  substance  which  he 
breathed  into  his  lungs  and  admitted  through  the  pores 
of  his  skin  to  every  part  of  his  body.  His  gay  and  strenu 
ous  past  flitted  by  him  like  a  varied  panorama.  What 
would  his  erstwhile  friend,  young  Lord  Colvin,  or  the 
Countess  of  Marian  think  of  him  if  they  could  see  him 
now — or  what  would  Lydia  Romley  think,  say,  or  do? 
Would  she  gloat  over  it  all?  Would  she  read  in  his  face 
the  blended  terror  and  remorse  which  was  wringing  the 
spirit-blood  from  his  cowed  and  humbled  soul? 

A  sound  in  the  hall  notified  him  that  some  one  was  ap 
proaching.  It  was  Marty.  She  leaned  against  the  door 
frame,  and  with  full,  glistening  eyes  stared  at  him. 

"Henry  wants  to  see  you,"  she  whispered. 

A  strange,  cool  psychic  wave  from  a  mystic  something 
hitherto  unexperienced  met  him  as  he  turned  from  the 
open  sunlight  into  the  shaded  interior  of  the  house  and 
followed  her  to  the  sick-room. 

"Here  he  is,  darling,"  Marty  said,  remaining  in  the 
hall. 

Henry  made  an  effort  to  raise  his  head  on  his  hand 
and  elbow,  as  his  brother  entered,  but  with  an  impatient 
sigh  he  sank  back  on  his  pillow. 

"Is  the  doctor  gone?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Carter  replied.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do 
for  you,  Henry?" 

238 


THE    INNER    LAW 

The  sick  man  laughed  harshly.  "I  told  him  I'd  have 
money  soon  and  would  pay  his  dirty  bill.  He  pretended 
not  to  care  one  way  or  another,  but  I'll  bet  he'll  make  it 
big  enough  when  he  does  send  it  in." 

• ' It  will  be  all  right;  everything  will  be  made  all  right," 
Carter  said,  clearing  his  throat  and  wondering  what 
would  be  suitable  for  saying.  There  was  a  swarm  of 
hungry  house-flies  over  the  bed,  some  on  the  sick  man's 
face  and  hands,  some  on  the  windows  and  floor  and  ceil 
ing.  Carter  felt  a  touch  of  nausea  as  if  the  food  he  had 
just  eaten  were  kept  from  digestion  by  his  perturbed  state 
of  mind. 

"Well,  I'll  certainly  be  glad  to  be  free  from  debt  again," 
Henry  half  chuckled,  "and  you  bet  I'll  stay  out  this 
time.  I'll  make  better  crops  next  year.  I  wonder  if 
that  damned  old  sawbones  will  be  here  again  to-morrow. 
I  don't  like  him.  I  heard  him  whispering  to  Marty  out 
in  the  hall,  asking  her  if  she  had  told  me  something  or 
other.  I  heard  her  crying  and  saying  she  hadn't,  but  that 
you  were  going  to  attend  to  it.  Say,  Cart,  if  you  are  going 
to  pay  bills  for  me  I  want  to  know  what  they  are — I 
want  to  see  them  and  check  off  the  items.  I  won't  be 
swindled  or  let  you  be,  either." 

"It  wasn't  about  the  bills,"  Carter  said,  lamely. 

"You  say  it  wasn't?    Then  what  was  it?" 

Carter  was  silent.  He  felt  the  stare  of  the  deep- 
sunken  eyes  drift  to  his  face,  though  his  own  were  di 
rected  toward  the  window. 

"Did  you  hear  me?    What  was  it?" 

Carter  sat  motionless,  though  he  felt  a  veritable  storm 
of  conflicting  impulses  rising  within  him.  "It  was  some 
thing  of  an  unpleasant  nature  to  us  all,"  he  began. 
"Marty  didn't  have  the  heart  to  tell  you,  and  I  thought 
that  perhaps  I — I — " 

"Ah,  I  see!"  sighed  the  sick  man,  and  an  oath  escaped 
his  lips.  "I'll  bet  I  know  what  it  is.  Some  of  my  old 

239 


THE    INNER   LAW 

devilment  has  cropped  up.  I  could  lay  my  finger  on  it 
first  guess.  They  are  going  to  try  me  for  selling  moon 
shine  whisky.  I  know  the  sneaking  rascal  that  gave  me 
away,  too.  I  didn't  sell  more  than  a  few  flasks  and  jugs. 
They  can't  call  this  house  'a  blind-tiger.'  I  got  the  stuff 
from  a  fellow  I  knew,  and  kept  it  in  the  barn.  Well,  they 
may  give  me  trouble.  Uncle  Sam  is  a  hard  master,  but 
I  had  to  have  some  ready  money  at  the  time,  and  it  came 
easy  that  way,  and  I  was  accommodating  the  chap  that 
made  the  stuff.  Well,  they  will  send  me  up,  or  stick  on 
a  heavy  fine.  They  may  even  try  to  bleed  you." 

"It  is  nothing  of  that  sort,"  Carter  said.  "Henry,  the 
doctor  thinks  that  you  ought  to  be  told  that  there  is  little 
hope  of  your  immediate  recovery,  and — " 

* '  Huh !    What  does  he  know  about  it  ?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Carter  detected  a  muffled  sob 
at  the  door  and  understood  its  meaning.  He  continued: 
"Henry,  the  doctor  thinks  there  is  no  hope — none  at  all. 
I  am  very,  very  sorry,  but  he  thinks  the — end  is  really 
only  a  few  days  off  at  best." 

The  crinkled,  cavity-filled  face  turned  on  its  side  till  the 
eyes  of  it  met  those  of  the  speaker.  The  stare  from  the 
bed  was  steady  and  pregnant  with  meaning,  and  the  silence 
upon  which  it  floated  so  helplessly  seemed  to  come  from 
a  sudden  new  conviction  of  the  doomed  man. 

He  sniffed  defiantly,  and  yet  his  lips  were  quivering. 
"You  don't  believe  it,  do  you?  You  wouldn't  rely  on 
the  opinion  of  a — a  green  country  yokel  like — like — " 
The  words  trailed  away  into  the  drone  of  the  flies  against 
the  window-panes. 

Carter  made  no  response,  and  this  itself  seemed  sig 
nificant  to  the  doomed  man. 

"Tell  me — tell  me — straight  out,  brother  to  brother, 
Cart,  old  boy,  do  you  believe  him?" 

"Henry,  I'm  afraid — I  am  afraid  that — I  do." 

"You  do?  Great  God!  Do  you  think,  as  your  honest 

240 


THE    INNER    LAW 

opinion,  Cart,  that  I'm  going  to  die  here,  like  this,  and 
right  off,  with  only  a  day  or  two  left — me,  Henry  Crof- 
ton?  Humph!  It  is  ridiculous!  Huh!" 

Carter  lowered  his  head  and  kept  it  down.  "I  wish  I 
could  help  you,"  he  answered. 

There  was  a  pause.  Henry  wet  his  dry  lips  with  his 
white-coated  tongue.  "Humph!  Humph!"  He  was 
trying  to  sneer  again.  "What  does  Marty  think?  Does 
she  believe  the  damn  fool  knows  what  he  is  talking 
about?" 

"I  think  she  does,  Henry." 

"How  do  you  know?  Where  is  she?  Tell  her  to  come 
here." 

The  woman  must  have  been  listening  at  the  door,  for 
she  came  in  without  waiting  to  be  summoned.  She  had 
hastily  wiped  her  eyes,  Carter  knew,  for  damp  traces  of 
tears  were  on  her  cheeks.  She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  her  back  to  the  light,  her  face  in  the  shadow. 

"Marty,  do  you  believe  this  fool  thing  the  doctor 
says  about  me?" 

She  lowered  her  head.  She  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
and  then  a  sob  was  wrung  from  her  breast. 

"I  see  you  do,  too."  Henry  turned  his  face  from 
them.  The  bony  fingers  on  his  breast  were  moving  like 
the  legs  of  a  crab.  Presently  they  heard  him  say: 

"Go  away,  both  of  you.  I — I  want  to  be  by  myself  a 
little  while.  I  want  to — to  take  a  nap.  I — I  feel  sort 
o'  drowsy.  O,  my  God,  my  God!  I  wonder — I  won 
der — "  The  last  words  were  uttered  too  softly  to  be 
heard,  for  Carter  was  following  the  weeping  woman  into 
the  kitchen.  He  stood  by  her  side.  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  drowning  in  a  tumultuous  sentient  sea,  and  the 
straw  he  tried  to  grasp,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  was 
the  forlorn  creature  at  his  side. 

"He  takes  it  hard,"  he  heard  his  lips  saying.  "I  think 
he  is  beginning  now  to  realize  it." 

16  241 


THE    INNER    LAW 

"Yes,  he  thinks  so  now.  Oh,  Mr.  Crofton,  he  is  not 
ready.  He's  not — he's  not  ready!" 

"You  mean  that  he  is  not  ready  in — in  a  spiritual 
sense?"  Carter  floundered. 

She  nodded.  "I've  known  it  a  long  time.  I've  tried 
the  best  I  could  to  get  him  to  pray  and  to  give  up  to  God, 
as  I  did  in  my  trouble,  but  Henry  wouldn't  listen;  he 
always  laughed  and  made  fun  when  I  read  my  Bible  and 
tried  to  talk  to  him.  God  is  good  and  merciful,  but  He 
turns  his  back  on  folks  who  won't  come  to  Him  of  their 
own  free  will  and  accord." 

The  world-traveled  man,  the  student  of  philosophies, 
the  past  companion  of  authors  and  thinkers  of  Europe, 
found  himself  unable  to  formulate  a  reply  which  would 
at  once  adapt  itself  to  his  reason  and  to  his  compassion 
for  the  sufferer  at  his  side. 

He  was  silent,  but  the  desperate  woman  wanted  to 
say  more.  "Henry  said  once  that  you  didn't  believe  in 
the  Bible,  yourself,"  she  went  on,  as  appealingly  as  an 
anxious  child,  and  yet  with  a  touch  of  reproach.  "I 
think  it  was  something  you  said  once  about  Tom  Paine, 
or  Darwin,  or  their  books,  that  made  him  first  laugh  at 
religion.  Mr.  Crofton,  listen  to  me.  I'm  just  a  poor, 
unhappy  woman.  I  don't  know  much,  and  I  haven't 
any  proof  at  all,  but  if  there  is  not  a  kind,  good  Heavenly 
Father  above  us,  and  a  place  of  peace  and  rest  for  tired 
human  souls  like  Henry's,  this  universe,  just  as  it  stands, 
is  a  fiendish  thing  that  was  made  by  a  devil,  and  God 
had  no  hand  in  it.  I'm  giving  up  the  body  of  the  man 
that  I  gave  up  everything  else  for,  but  I  won't  give  up 
his  soul.  My  own  soul  won't  permit  it,  and  I  believe — I 
want  to  believe,  and  don't  doubt  it  till  I  meet  somebody 
like  you — that  my  soul — not  my  body — but  my  soul,  is 
part  and  parcel  of  God's  own  great  spirit." 

"I'm  sorry  if  it  was  anything  that  I  said  that  caused 
Henry  to — "  Crofton  began,  but  she  broke  in. 

242 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"Oh,  it  may  not  have  been  you!"  she  corrected,  quickly. 
"Plenty  of  people  he  knows  and  goes  with  haven't  any 
faith.  Forgive  me,  forgive  me.  I  don't  know  what  I  am 
doing  or  saying  to-day.  It  is  awful,  awful.  I'm  an  out 
cast.  I'm  a  widow  without  a  name.  I'm  shunned  by 
my  kind  for  something  I  couldn't  help — I  swear  it  before 
God's  face  at  this  minute.  I  couldn't  help  what  I  did. 
I  am  righting  for  belief,  for  faith — for  something  to  hold 
to.  If  God  doesn't  stand  by  me  I'll  have  to  kill  myself — 
do  you  understand?  Now  you  may  see  if  there  is  a  God. 
Watch  me  and  see  what  will  happen.  When  Henry's 
gone,  who  will  back  me  if  God  doesn't?"  With  her  apron 
to  her  writhing  mouth  she  turned  and  left  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FJINDING  himself  alone,  Carter  tiptoed  softly  into 
JL  the  hall  and  across  to  the  library,  or  what  was  once 
the  library.  The  big  room  contained  no  furniture,  being 
quite  bare  save  for  a  dusty  pile  of  old  agricultural  im 
plements  on  one  side,  a  few  bundles  of  fodder,  and  a  dry- 
goods  box  containing  shelled  corn  on  another.  He  lo 
cated  the  spot  where  the  table  had  stood  at  which  he  had 
written  part  of  that  long-dead  poem.  There  against  the 
wall  had  stood  the  bookcase  at  which  Lydia  was  at  work 
when  he  first  saw  her.  Lydia  Romley,  the  ignorant 
mountain  girl  whom  Fate,  Time,  and  suffering  had  fash 
ioned  into  the  rare  woman  she  had  become.  There  he 
stood  in  the  room  in  which  their  passion  was  born.  The 
room  was  in  ruin,  as  he  was  in  ruin.  But  Lydia  was  not 
desperate,  as  he  was  desperate,  for  he  had  seen  a  perma 
nent  light  in  her  face  which  had  never  for  one  moment 
shone  in  his. 

Leaving  the  room,  which  was  so  like  a  sepulcher  filled 
with  accusing  atoms  of  his  decaying  self,  he  went  out  and 
took  the  direction  of  one  of  his  old  mountain  walks.  The 
sun  was  going  down.  From  the  level  valley  below  he 
heard  the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  bleating  of  lambs,  the 
early  supper-horn  of  some  farmer — all  just  as  it  was  in 
his  youth.  He  recalled  a  sunset  he  had  seen  at  a  little 
inn  in  the  Alps,  and  how  he  had  lain  awake  that  night 
listening  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale.  That  was  when 
he  was  a  lone  wanderer,  and  he  was  still  a  lone  wanderer. 
After  Henry  was  buried,  he  told  himself,  he  would  flee 

244 


THE   INNER   LAW 

the  spot;  he  would  go  he  knew  not  where,  but  he  would 
go  somewhere.  He  had  tried  in  vain  all  his  life  to  fly 
from  memories,  but  he  would  try  again.  That  was  all 
that  was  left  him— flight,  flight! 

It  was  growing  dark  when  he  descended  to  the  farm 
house.  A  light  in  the  kitchen  told  him  that  Marty  was 
there,  and  he  went  around  the  house  to  the  outer  door. 
She  was  standing  over  the  hot  stove.  She  looked  up,  and 
came  to  him. 

''How  is  he?"  he  asked.     "Has  he  waked  yet?" 

"He  hasn't  been  asleep,"  she  answered.  "He  was  just 
pretending,  to  mislead  us.  I've  heard  him  rolling  and 
tumbling  and  moaning  ever  since  you  left  him.  It  isn't 
pain  of  the  body;  it  is  trouble  of  the  mind.  When  he 
hears  me  coming  he  lies  quiet,  but  when  I  go  away  he 
begins  again.  I  can  hear  him  make  the  slightest  move 
in  this  big,  still  house;  I've  got  accustomed  to  it.  I 
could  hear  a  rat  gnawing  a  piece  of  wood  if  I  was  here 
and  it  was  at  work  away  out  under  the  front  porch. 
Your  supper  will  be  on  the  table  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  He  had  no  appetite,  but  he 
did  not  want  to  admit  it  to  her,  for  it  was  a  sign  of  a 
weakness  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 

After  supper  was  over  he  sat  on  the  grass  at  the  front 
door.  Now  and  then  during  that  dreary,  monotonous 
hour  he  heard  low  voices  from  the  sick-room.  At  eight 
o'clock  Marty  came  to  him  to  say  that  she  was  tired  and 
would  lie  down  by  the  sick  man. 

"If  you  need  any  assistance  you  must  call  me,"  he  said. 
"How  is  he  resting  now?" 

"He  is  not  resting  at  all;  he's  still  bothered,"  she 
faltered.  "  I  don't  know  that  we  did  right  to  tell  him  the 
truth,  after  all.  I  almost  wish  we  hadn't  done  it.  Doc 
tors  may  know  about  the  body,  but  they  don't  know  any 
more  about  the  spirit  than  other  folks  do.  Good  night." 

She  had  been  gone  only  a  few  minutes  when  he  went 

245 


THE    INNER   LAW 

to  his  room.  He  wondered  if  he  would  be  able  to  sleep. 
He  bethought  himself  of  his  morphine  tablets,  but  again 
resisted  the  temptation  to  use  them.  Of  late  he  was 
becoming  afraid  of  the  drug.  The  sleep  it  induced  re 
sembled  death.  He  wondered  how  a  photograph  of  him 
self  would  look  if  taken  as  he  lay  under  its  influence. 
He  shuddered,  for  death  now  alarmed  him  more  than 
ever  before.  He  had  taken  the  bottle  from  his  pocket, 
but  he  thrust  it  back,  the  superstitious  fear  hurtling 
through  his  brain  that  perhaps  grim,  purposeful  Fate  had 
lured  him  there  to  die  at  the  same  time  that  Henry  died, 
and  under  that  tragic  roof. 

"What  an  insane  idea!"  he  muttered.  "After  all,  I 
may  be  insane,  or  fast  becoming  so.  Am  I  acting,  feeling, 
thinking  as  a  rational  man  would  under  like  circum 
stances?  Father  was  insane  at  the  last.  Uncle  may  have 
been  at  one  time,  if  not  when  he  died.  His  son  killed  him 
self.  Henry  is  not  dying  a  natural  death,  and  I  have  never 
been  normal,  and  am  not  now.  I  once  thought  it  was  due 
to  genius,  but  I  am  not  a  genius.  Do  I  look  like  a  sane 
man?  Would  a  sane  man  have  allowed  his  only  brother, 
the  pal  of  his  childhood,  to  come  to  this  while  he  was 
swimming  in  the  social  sewers  of  Europe?  Would  a  ra 
tional  man  allow  his  brother's  mistress — a  woman  of  that 
stamp — to  stab  him  through  and  through  with  her  back 
woods  ideas  of  a  Creator  and  the  soul's  responsibilities?" 

Midnight  came  and  passed.  Still  his  eyes  were  open. 
He  rose,  groped  in  the  dark  for  his  coat,  and  began  to 
fumble  for  the  morphine;  but  again  irresolution  clutched 
him,  and  he  sank  back  on  the  bed  without  touching  the 
bottle. 

At  three  o'clock,  still  unable  to  sleep,  he  crept  to  the 
door,  opened  it  cautiously,  and  stood  listening.  Low 
voices  came  from  the  sick-room.  He  saw  a  slender  bar 
of  light  beneath  the  door-shutter.  It  could  mean  noth 
ing  but  that  the  doomed  man  was  also  unable  to  sleep. 

246 


THE    INNER   LAW 

He  went  back  to  his  bed  and  sat  on  its  edge.  How  long 
would  his  torture  last?  Since  Henry  had  to  die,  how 
much  better  it  would  be  for  it  to  happen  without  delay, 
so  that  he  could  go  away  from  a  spot  which  was  pregnant 
with  much  that  was  so  hauntingly  horrible!  Then  sud 
denly  he  shuddered,  for  he  had  actually  desired  his  broth 
er's  death.  "O  God,  forgive  me!"  he  cried,  unconscious 
that  the  words  were  a  prayer. 

It  was  growing  light  in  the  eastern  sky  when  he  heard 
a  step  at  his  door.  There  was  a  cautious  rap  on  it.  He 
opened  it  and  saw  Marty  standing  back  in  the  darkness 
of  the  hallway. 

"I'm  sorry  to  wake  you,"  she  faltered;  "but  Henry 
has  been  begging  for  you.  He  hasn't  slept  a  wink.  I 
told  him  I'd  come  and  tell  you." 

"I'll  be  right  in,"  Carter  said.  He  dressed  rapidly, 
pushing  his  feet  into  his  shoes  without  putting  on  his 
stockings,  and  tying  a  handkerchief  around  his  neck  in 
place  of  a  collar  and  cravat. 

A  lamp  was  burning  on  the  mantelpiece.  A  news 
paper  was  leaning  against  it  to  shade  the  bed.  Henry 
turned  his  head  slowly,  laboriously  as  he  entered. 

"You  asked  for  me?"  Carter  inquired. 

The  gray,  cracked  lips  moved  at  first  without  sound, 
then:  "Yes,  Cart,  I  want  to  talk  to  you — or — or  some 
body.  Marty" — sending  his  glance  to  the  still  sentinel 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed — "would  you  mind  leaving  us  two 
alone  ?  We  have  no  secrets,  but — but  I  want  to  talk  to — 
to — well,  to  just  one  at  a  time.  I've  said  all  I  can  to  you, 
and  I — I  want  to  speak  with — with  my  brother." 

Without  a  word  and  like  a  shifting  shadow  she  left  the 
room.  Carter  was  undecided  whether  to  sit  in  the  chair 
by  the  bed,  or  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  itself,  where  there 
was  ample  space.  He  felt  that  the  relationship,  the  cir 
cumstances,  demanded  the  latter,  and  yet  his  whole  being 
shrank  from  close  contact  with  the  putrefying  mass  of 

247 


THE   INNER   LAW 

conscious  humanity  which  was  and  was  not  his  brother. 
He  did  neither.  He  took  the  woman's  place  at  the  bed's 
foot,  and  leaned  upon  one  of  the  cool,  smooth  posts. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you,"  he  managed 
to  say,  feeling  that  it  was  a  useless,  insincere  platitude. 
Henry  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  lying  with  averted 
eyes.  There  might  have  been  a  frown  on  his  brow  had 
the  flesh  not  been  too  thin  to  produce  it. 

"Cart,  I've  been  thinking  of  what  the  doctor  said.  I 
reckon,  after  all,  that  he  knows  his  business — I  reckon 
I  am  going  to  die.  I  can  see  that  Marty  thinks  so,  too, 
and  you."  The  glance  was  now  full  of  open  appeal 
as  it  went  straight  to  the  listener.  "/  reckon  you  think 
so,  too?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  do,"  Carter  answered.  "I'm  sorry,  but 
it  is  true,  I  suppose." 

"You  feel  pretty  sure  of  it,  Cart,  don't  you?" 

Carter  nodded.  "I  suppose  you  may  as  well  face  the 
— the  inevitable.  It  can't  be  avoided." 

A  desperate  sigh  flitted  like  a  scared,  invisible  thing 
from  the  flat  chest.  The  fingers  of  the  hands  were  balled 
convulsively.  "Cart,  brother  Carter,  /  don't  want  to  die! 
/  don't  want  to — /  don't  want  to!" 

No  answer  was  forthcoming,  though  the  stare  of  the 
dying  man  seemed  to  be  trying  to  fix  itself  upon  at  least 
some  facial  response  which  might  give  hope. 

"I  don't  want  to  die,"  Henry  repeated,  desperately. 
"I  can't  think  of  anything  else  to  say,  right  now,  and  it 
can't  do  any  good  to  say  even  that,  but — my  God !  brother, 
what  am  I  to  do?  Why,  just  a  few  hours  back  I  had  no 
idea  that  I  could  ever  feel  like  this.  I  had  no  idea  any 
man  could  feel  like  it.  Do  you  hear  me — any  man?  I 
am  actually  up  against  it.  I've  heard  of  death  all  my  life, 
but  I  never  dreamt  it  would  be  like  this.  I  don't  want  to 
die — I  don't — I  don't !  Say,  is  there  absolutely  no  chance, 
none  at  all?  But,  oh,  what  is  the  use  for  me  to  ask  such 

248 


THE   INNER   LAW 

a  foolish  question?  I'm  all  in.  I've  been  lying  here 
fighting  it  ever  since  the  doctor  left.  There  is  nothing 
for  me  to  do  except  to  try  to  believe  in  Marty's  religion. 
Say,  Cart,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  what  I  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  ask  a  week  ago.  I  wouldn't  ask  it  now,  but 
I  haven't  a  thread  of  any  other  hope  to  tie  to,  and — I  am 
afraid  to  die  if — if  the  church  folks  are  right  about  the 
judgment  to  come,  and  I  don't  want  to  die  if  I  am  to 
be  blotted  out  of  existence.  I  can't  stand  the  idea  of 
that,  either,  and  why  I  don't  know.  Say,  you've  been 
around  the  world  a  lot,  Cart.  You've  read  the  greatest 
books  and  met  great  thinkers  and  talked  to  them  face  to 
face.  Now  you  can  tell  me,  if  anybody  can.  What  is 
there  ahead  for  me,  for  Henry  Crofton  as  you  know  the 
man  and  as  you  see  him  now?  Is  there  such  a  thing  as 
God  and  His  forgiveness,  or  is  it  all  bosh  pure  and  simple? 
Answer  me,  Cart.  I'm  all  in;  I'm  plumb  desperate — I've 
got  to  know  something.  Did  a  man  called  Jesus  Christ 
ever  die  away  back  in  that  far-off  country  to  save  men  as 
bad  and  tough  as  I've  been?  I  used  to  believe  it,  in  a 
way,  when  you  and  I  were  little  boys  and  mother  talked 
it  so  much,  but  I'm  all  in  the  dark  now?  I'm  desperate. 
I've  even  prayed  as  Marty  told  me  to — using  her  exact 
words — but  nothing  came  of  it  that  I  could  see.  She  says 
when  a  man  is  sorry  for  what  he  has  done  that  the  Lord 
will  forgive,  and  she  may  be  right — she  may  be,  and  the 
trouble  with  me  is  that  I  am  not  actually  sorry.  Maybe 
I'm  so  full  of  fear  that  I  am  too  selfish  to  be  sorry.  Do 
you  catch  my  point?  As  I  look  at  her — the  woman  I've 
brought  all  this  to,  and  I  try  to  see  if  I  am  sorry  about 
her,  for  instance,  I  find  myself  wondering  if  I  really  am 
or  if  I  am  only  trying  to  make  a  deal  with  God  in  my  own 
interest.  The  trouble  is,  you  see,  that  Marty  is  not  the 
only  woman  I've  harmed;  and — now  I  wouldn't  have  her 
know  this,  but  I'd  rather  crawl  away  to  some  hiding-place 
and  die  alone  than  here  under  her  care.  It  hurts  me  and 

249 


THE    INNER   LAW 

makes  me  ashamed.  I  can't  keep  from  thinking  that  I'm 
dying  here  like  this,  nursed  and  grieved  over  by  a  woman 
who  never  was  my  wife — never  was  the  mother  of  my  chil 
dren.  You  see,  the  very  bed  I  die  on  is  unholy,  and  I  am 
a  father,  Cart,  who  has  never  seen  all  of  his  own  children. 
I  turned  my  back  on  them,  and  now  I  am  wanting  God 
to  turn  His  face  to  me  in  kindness.  Think  of  that!" 

The  lips  of  the  dying  man  were  twitching,  a  dry  sob 
hung  and  gurgled  in  his  throat.  He  was  silent  for  sev 
eral  minutes.  Again  Carter  wondered  how  long  it  would 
be  before  the  agony — his  own  agony — would  be  over. 
Surely,  since  Henry  had  to  die,  it  would  be  better  for  the 
end  to  come  at  once.  Again  he  had  entertained  that 
thought — again  he  was  horrified  by  it. 

"Well,  well,  I  see  you  can't  help  me,"  Henry  sighed. 
"Cart,  I  wish  I  was  a  Catholic.  I  knew  a  fellow — I 
bummed  around  with  him  a  lot  in  Louisville  ten  years  ago, 
gambling,  carousing,  and  the  like.  He  was  one — he  was 
a  Catholic.  A  fellow  shot  him  over  a  poker  game  in  a 
bar-room,  and  he  lay  there  in  the  bloody  sawdust  on  the 
floor.  It  was  hot  and  I  fanned  him  with  my  hat  while 
some  of  the  rest  ran  to  get  a  doctor  and  a  priest.  He 
had  but  one  thought  in  his  mind.  He  kept  begging  for 
the  priest,  and  praying  and  praying  that  he  would  get 
there  in  time.  It  was  terrible  the  way  he  went  on.  The 
doctor  came  and  could  do  nothing  to  save  him.  All  the 
time  he  was  begging  for  the  priest  and  praying  out  loud. 
Then  at  last  the  priest  came  and  did  all  that  to  him — 
you  know  what  I  mean.  Words  don't  come  to  me  now, 
but  the  priest  was  bending  over  him,  putting  stuff  on  his 
brow,  crossing  him,  and  whispering  and  listening  to  what 
he  said.  He  got  through — the  priest  got  through  and 
stood  up,  looking  contented,  his  face  and  eyes  shining  in 
a  way  I  never  have  forgot. 

'"You  are  all  right  now,'  I  heard  him  say,  and  'Toady' 
— that's  what  we  always  called  the  fellow — said:  'Thank 

250 


THE    INNER    LAW 

you,  Father.  God  bless  you!'  And  he  died — Cart,  he  died 
right  there  in  that  bloody  puddle  with  a  smile  on  his  lips 
like  a  child  going  to  sleep  watched  by  its  mother.  Now, 
Cart,  that  is  what  I  want — something  like  that,  but  who 
could  give  it  to  me?  There  are  no  priests  in  these  moun 
tains — nothing  but  Protestants,  and  they  don't  believe 
in  confessions.  What  am  I  to  do — what?" 

Carter  was  unable  to  answer.  A  turgid  hope  crawled 
through  his  consciousness  that  the  dying  man  would  in 
terpret  his  bowed  head  and  silence  as  grief.  But,  after 
all,  what  could  he  possibly  say?  For  was  he  not  virtually 
suffering  at  least  spiritual  death  himself?  Yes,  it  was  as 
bad  as  that,  and  he  was  becoming  alarmed  by  it. 

"I've  told  you  this  for  a  reason,  Cart.  I  thought  it 
out  in  the  night.  Do  you  reckon  if  I  sent  for  the  Metho 
dist  preacher,  Mr.  Clark,  who  lives  half  a  mile  up  the  road 
— if  I  got  him  here  would  he  do,  or  say,  anything  that 
would  help?" 

"He  might,"  Carter  answered,  at  the  end  of  all  his 
resources.  "Shall  I  go  for  him?" 

"I  wish  you  would,  Cart,"  the  sick  man  moaned.  "I 
want  to  try  something,  and  I  can't  think  of  anything  else. 
But  wait!  Before  you  go  I  want  to  tell  you  that  a  year 
ago,  with  no  idea  of  dying  soon,  in  mind,  though — in  fact, 
I  did  it  to  spite  some  of  these  gossips  around  here  who 
were  turning  up  their  noses  at  Marty — a  year  ago  I  made 
a  will  by  which  I  left  her  this  farm.  Now  what  I  want 
to  ask  is  this — do  you  reckon  it  will  hold  good  in  law? 
There  is  a  big  debt  on  the  place,  but  if  it  was  sold  at  public 
outcry  something  might  be  left  over  for  her — a  few  hun 
dred,  anyway." 

"I  promise  you  that  I'll  pay  off  the  debt  in  full,"  Carter 
said.  "Then  the  entire  property  will  be  wholly  hers  and 
she  can  live  well  on  the  income  from  the  land.  I'll  give 
her  some  money,  besides.  I'll  see  that  she  is  provided 
for  all  her  life." 

251 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Good!  good!    You  will  do  that,  eh?" 

"Yes,  gladly." 

"And — and" — a  shudder  convulsed  the  thin  frame — 
"the  ready  money  for — for —  You  know  what  I  mean, 
Cart?  I  hate  to  think  of  it." 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  do  not — quite  understand." 

"I  mean  the — burial  expenses.  Strange  how  I  hate  to 
say  it." 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  pay  for  everything.     Don't  worry." 

"Then  try  to  get  the  preacher  and  explain,  if  you  can, 
what  I  want.  Maybe  he  will  understand.  He  is  a 
crusty  sort  of  a  man  that  I've  had  some  disputes  with. 
Oh,  Cart,  Cart,  I  don't  want  to  die!  I  don't  want  even 
to  think  about  it,  much  less  arrange  for  it,  but  I  must — 
I  must!  Go  get  him — go  get  him!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  dawn  was  breaking  when  Carter  went  out  from 
the  house  and  started  toward  the  home  of  the 
preacher.  He  breathed  in  sheer  relief,  and  yet  he  knew 
the  relief  was  only  temporary,  for  he  would  have  to  go 
back  to  the  harrowing  scene  in  a  few  minutes.  But  it 
would  all  be  over  sooner  or  later,  and  then  he  would  be 
free  from  the  awful  clutch  of  the  thing,  and  he  would  travel 
— travel  again,  seek  new  scenes,  fresh  diversions,  and  for 
get— -forget? 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Clark's  house  was  a  small  cottage 
which  stood  at  the  side  of  the  road,  shaded  by  some  apple 
and  cherry  trees.  Early  as  it  was,  smoke  was  issuing 
from  the  chimney  of  the  little  lean-to  kitchen  in  the  rear. 
No  one  was  within  sight,  and,  passing  through  the  gate, 
Carter  went  round  the  cottage  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen. 
Here  a  young,  florid-faced  woman,  her  hands  coated  with 
flour  dough,  met  him,  a  look  of  surprise  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"Is  Mr.  Clark  at  home?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes;  he's  back  at  his  hog-pen  feeding  the  hogs.  He'll 
be  here  in  a  minute.  Won't  you  step  in  and  sit  down?" 

"No,  thank  you;  I'm  in  a  hurry,  and  I'll  walk  back 
to  him." 

Bending  over  a  pen  made  of  fence-rails,  a  slop-pail  in  his 
hand,  in  a  stiff  white  shirt,  without  coat,  collar,  or  neck 
tie,  stood  the  minister,  a  pair  of  loose  carpet  slippers  on 
his  sockless  feet.  He  was  under  thirty  years  of  age,  and 
yet  he  wore  a  full,  glossy  brown  beard  which  gave  his 
youthful  face  a  look  of  artificial  gravity.  Carter  intro- 

253 


THE    INNER   LAW 

duced  himself  and  partially  explained  the  object  of  his 
caH. 

The  preacher  wiped  his  right  hand  on  his  trousers  and 
extended  it  formally.  "I  heard  you  were  here,  Mr. 
Crofton,"  he  said.  "And  of  course  I  knew  how  bad  off 
your  brother  was.  The  doctor  told  me,  as  he  passed, 
but  I  had  no  idea  that  my  services  would  be  asked  for. 
It  certainly  comes  as  a  great  surprise,  for  your  brother 
is  not  a  member  of  any  church,  and  has  the  reputation 
of  being  a  scoffer.  Of  course  I'm  willing  to  hold  the  ser 
vice  at  our  meeting-house,  provided  the  members  raise 
no  objections.  You  see,  Mr.  Crofton,  they  built  it  with 
their  own  hands  at  odd  times,  and — and  they  feel  a  cer 
tain  personal  interest  in  it.  I  don't  know  how  to  explain 
something  that  will  be  hard  to  bring  up  to  you  as  a  brother 
to  Mr.  Crofton,  but  a  state  of  affairs  exists  here  that  is 
complicated,  to  say  the  least  that  can  be  said.  I  suppose 
you  know  that — that  the  woman  now  living  with  your 
brother  is  not  his  wife?" 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  but  I  hope  at  such  a  time  that  you 
will  set  that  aside  and — " 

"I  would  myself — oh,  I  would  as  far  as  I  am  concerned; 
but  I  see  you  don't  fully  understand.  We  can't  make 
human  nature  over — human  nature  is  human  nature,  and, 
to  be  frank,  your  brother  has  been  in  a  regular  turmoil 
here  for  the  last  three  years,  criticizing  these  people  be 
cause  they  don't  approve  of  his  high  and  mighty  way  of 
living.  He  has  gone  so  far  as  to  tell  some  of  them  to 
their  teeth  that  his  woman  is  as  pure  as  their  wives,  and 
that  they  haven't  a  speck  of  religion  or  they  wouldn't 
find  fault  with  her.  Why —  Well,  I'm  going  to  be  plainer 
yet.  I've  stopped  a  white-cap  gang  twice  as  they  were 
ready  to  tar  and  feather  them  and  ride  them  on  a  rail 
out  of  the  community.  Your  brother  was  born  rich  and 
of  a  high  family,  and  he  has  tried  to  ride  rough-shod  over 
a  whole  settlement  of  decent,  God-fearing  citizens  just 

254 


THE    INNER   LAW 

because  they  were  poor  and  simple.  You  see  the  situa 
tion.  Whether  they  would  let  their  church-house  be 
used  in  such  a  way  I  don't  know.  I'd  have  to  call  a 
meeting  of  leading  members  and  put  it  before  them." 

"I  don't  think  my  brother  had  any  church  service  in 
mind,"  Carter  explained,  awkwardly.  "It  was  only  that 
he  thought  you  might  say  something  or  do  something  to 
relieve  his  mind.  He  knows  he  has  to  die,  and  he  is  very, 
very  much  depressed." 

"Oh,  I  see!  That  is  quite  a  different  matter.  I'll  do 
what  I  can.  I  always  do.  I'll  come  right  over  as  soon  as 
I  wash  and  fix  up  a  bit.  I  reckon  he's  in  a  repentant  mood, 
and  if  he  is  I'll  do  all  I  can,  and  niaybe  it  will  help  him. 
God  knows  I  hope  so." 

The  sun  was  up  when  Carter  got  back  to  the  farm-house. 
Its  yellow  light  was  sparkling  in  the  dewdrops  on  the 
weeds  and  grass  of  the  neglected  lawn,  giving  out  pris 
matic  gleams  of  blue,  red  and  gold. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  preacher  walked  in.  He  wore  a 
long  black  frock-coat,  black  necktie,  and  his  heavy  new 
shoes  creaked  loudly  as  he  crossed  the  porch  and  strode 
down  the  hall  in  the  wake  of  the  awed  and  silent  Marty. 

Carter  was  seated  by  the  bed,  and  rose  to  give  the  minis 
ter  his  chair,  while  Marty,  with  a  cowed  look  on  her  face, 
hastened  to  fetch  another  from  the  dining-room.  Carter 
declined  the  chair  when  it  came,  some  inner  impulse 
causing  him  to  plead  with  her  to  take  it  instead.  But 
as  she  would  not  sit,  he  stood  by  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  He  recalled  being  at  the  bedside  of  a  dying  friend,  an 
artist  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  seeing  the  wife  and  the  mis 
tress  of  the  man  treated  with  equal  courtesy  by  those  who 
were  present,  and  he  wondered  if  he,  himself,  had  become 
genuinely  humane  at  bottom,  or  if  he  were  merely  follow 
ing  an  example  set  for  him  by  a  class  of  people  supposed 
to  be  highly  cultured. 

The  minister  stared  at  Henry  and  muttered  something 

255 


THE    INNER    LAW 

indistinctly  as  he  sat  down  and  crossed  his  legs.  He 
drew  a  small,  well-worn  bible  from  his  pocket  and  cleared 
his  throat.  He  glanced  about  the  room,  then  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  thin  countenance  of  the  dying  man  and  said: 

"Your  brother  told  me  that  you'd  like  to  see  me,  Mr. 
Crofton.  Of  course  this  is  not  a  time  for  any  ill  will  over 
past  differences.  I  have  laid  all  those  things  aside,  and 
I  hope  you  have." 

"Yes,  yes;  oh  yes,"  Henry  said.  "I'm  a  dying  man, 
Mr.  Clark,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  it.  I'm 
sorry  if  I  ever  hurt  your  feelings.  I've  never  been  re 
ligious,  and  I  thought  that  maybe  you  could  help  me  in 
some  way — in  some  way." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  that  can  help  anybody  at  such 
a  time,  Mr.  Crofton,"  was  the  perfunctory  answer.  "And 
it  is  very,  very  simple.  We  are  told  in  this  precious  Book 
that  Jesus  came  to  earth  and  died  to  save  all  sinners. 
You  are  a  sinner,  and  I  am  a  sinner — all  of  us  are  sinners. 
All  you  have  to  do  to  gain  pardon,  to  secure  eternal  life, 
is  to  believe  on  our  Saviour,  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Re 
member  the  thief  on  the  cross.  That  was  late,  as  your 
case  is  late — and  yet  our  blessed  Lord  practically  gave 
him  the  key  to  heaven  on  the  spot.  If  you  want  me 
to  read  that  account  I  will  do  so,  and  then  I  would  sug 
gest  a  short  prayer.  After  that  I  will  sing  a  hymn  that 
I  think  is  a  beautiful  one.  My  voice  is  not  good,  but  I'll 
do  the  best  I  can.  We've  been  running  a  big  revival 
over  in  the  Cove,  and  I  sang  so  much  there  that  I'm  a 
little  hoarse;  but,  as  I  say,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

"Marty,  why  don't  you  sit  down?  There  is  a  chair," 
Henry  said,  with  a  sudden  show  of  irritation  that  was 
unexpected.  As  if  she  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing, 
the  woman  sank  into  the  chair,  covering  her  startled  face 
with  her  work-reddened  hands.  There  was  silence  then, 
broken  by  the  harsh  breathing  of  the  sick  man  through 
his  thin,  fluttering  nostrils. 

256 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Shall  I  begin?"  The  preacher  looked  inquiringly  at 
Carter,  ignored  Marty,  and  then  rested  his  eyes  fixedly 
on  the  face  of  the  dying  man. 

"I  don't  know — I  really  don't  know,"  Henry  sighed, 
wearily;  and  they  saw  him  make  a  feeble  effort  to  shake 
his  head.  "I  don't  believe  it  will  do  me  any  good — I 
don't — I  don't.  It  might  help  some  men,  but  it  won't 
help  me" 

"You  haven't  given  it  a  trial"  the  preacher  said, 
testily. 

"Oh,  I  know — I  know,"  Henry  moaned.  "I  don't 
want  to  hurt  your  feelings — I  don't  want  to  hurt  the  feel 
ings  of  any  human  being  alive  to-day.  I'm  sorry  we  had 
those  words  over  your  creed  and  calling,  but,  Mr.  Clark, 
I  don't  think  I  could  bear  to  hear  you  read  and  pray  and 
sing,  feeling  as  I  do.  If  there  is  a  God  I  want  Him  to 
help  me.  If  there  was  such  a  man  as  Jesus,  and  His  soul 
is  still  in  existence,  I  want  Him  to  help  me.  I'm  all 
tangled  up  with  my  past  life,  and  this  awful  thing  that 
has  come  on  me — I  mean  death — death!  I've  prayed 
and  prayed.  Why,  this  is  a  prayer  itself — what  I  am  say 
ing  now  is  a  prayer.  I'm  more  desperate  than  the  thief 
on  the  cross.  Maybe  he  just  stole  a  thing  or  two,  but 
I've  done  a  thousand  wrong  things — things  that  never 
could  be  righted.  It  is  the  thing  that  you  can't  put  right 
that  counts.  I've  heard  my  uncle  Tom  say  that,  and 
he  was  a  deep  thinker." 

"Right  there  lies  your  trouble,"  the  minister  said,  re 
sentfully.  "You  say  if  there  is  a  God — if  Jesus  ever 
lived.  I  must  be  plain  with  you,  sir.  God  and  Jesus 
can't  and  won't  be  interested  in  a  man  who  says  'if  in 
the  way  you  do.  That  very  word  shows  you  haven't 
got  faith,  and  without  faith  there  is  no  salvation  for  you 
nor  any  one  else." 

" Oh,  I  can't  argue!"  Henry  wailed  out,  sharply.  " But 
please  don't  read  and  sing  and  pray.  I  don't  want  to 

i7  257 


THE    INNER   LAW 

hear  you.  You  stoned  that  poor,  suffering  woman  hud 
dled  up  there  in  that  chair;  you  stoned  her  by  not  treat 
ing  her  as  a  lady  and  rising  when  she  came  in  the  room, 
and  by  the  way  your  back  is  turned  to  her  now.  Please 
go  away  and  leave  me.  My  brother  will  pay  you  for — " 

"Pay  me!"  the  preacher  sniffed,  reluctantly  twisting  his 
body  so  that  he  half  faced  Marty.  "I  don't  make  visits 
like  this  for  pay.  You  nor  he  nor  no  one  else  could  pay 
me.  I  see  I'm  not  needed.  Thank  God,  I  have  kept 
my  temper.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  am  sorry  for  the — 
the — lady  you  allude  to,  also,  and  if  I  didn't  treat  her  with 
all  the  respect  she  deserves,  it  was  not  intended." 

Carter  remained  standing  after  the  preacher  had  angrily 
stalked  from  the  room.  Marty  sat  staring  at  the  floor  like 
a  convicted  criminal.  Presently  she  got  up  to  go  to  the 
kitchen.  Henry  had  turned  his  face  toward  the  wall, 
and  only  the  rising  and  sinking  of  the  sheet  over  his 
breast  indicated  that  he  was  still  alive.  Carter  took  the 
chair  vacated  by  the  preacher.  It  was  his  movement 
that  caused  Henry  to  glance  in  his  direction. 

"Oh,  Cart,  Cart,  I  don't  want  to  die!"  he  moaned. 
"You  don't  know  what  it's  like — you  never  will  know  till 
your  time  comes,  till  all  hope  is  gone.  Say,  you  haven't 
led  a  religious  life,  either,  have  you?" 

"No,  no."  Carter  felt  that  he  was  fairly  hurling  a 
confession  at  the  desperate  man  with  the  hope  that  his 
own  culpability  might  comfort  him.  "I've  been  worse. 
Henry,  I've  been  a  thousand  times  worse  than  you.  You 
were  never  warned,  deliberately  warned;  but  I  was. 
At  one  time  I  had  a  chance  to  make  amends  for  my  most 
grievous  offense,  and  refused.  In  cold  blood,  after  days 
of  reflection,  I  refused.  I  am  suffering  untold  agony  at 
this  moment.  Your  death  is  my  death.  It  may  not  seem 
possible  to  you,  but  it  is  the  truth.  I  sinned  against  God 
as  no  other  man  to  my  knowledge  ever  sinned,  and  the 
consequences  stand  before  me  in  letters  of  accusing  fire." 

258 


THE    INNER    LAW 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  Henry  said.  "You  are  all  right. 
You  show  it  by  your  kindness  and  charity  to  Marty. 
She  told  me  last  night  that  she  was  surprised.  She 
thought  you  were  like  Milly,  and  dreaded  meeting  you 
more  than  anybody  in  all  the  world,  and  yet,  she  said, 
from  the  minute  she  laid  eyes  on  you  she  knew  you  had 
a  kind,  pitying  heart.  She  will  be  awfully  lonely  after — 
after  it  is  over.  She  will  have  no  kin  or  friends  to  speak 
a  kind  word,  and  I  brought  her  to  it.  If  she  hadn't  met 
me,  and  if  I  hadn't  followed  her  up,  she  would  have  been 
a  contented  wife  and  have  had  a  home  and  friends." 

"I'll  be  a  friend  to  her  as  long  as  I  live,"  Carter  said, 
deeply  moved. 

"I  know,  but,  after  all,  what  can  you  do?  Nothing — 
nothing!  Now  please  leave  me  alone." 

Wearily  Henry  turned  his  face  away,  and  his  brother 
crept  softly  from  the  room  and  out  where  the  slanting 
rays  of  the  sun  swept  the  yard. 

A  long,  sultry  day  dragged  by.  Late  in  the  afternoon 
Dr.  Manson  came.  He  remained  alone  with  the  patient 
several  minutes;  then  he  came  out  to  where  Marty  and 
Carter  sat  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  porch. 

"He  is  much  weaker,"  he  announced.  "He  is  sinking 
fast.  He  can't  live  till  sun-up  to-morrow." 

"Does  he  realize  that  it  will  be  so  soon?"  Carter 
asked. 

"I  think  not.  He  may  soon  become  unconscious. 
There  is  absolutely  nothing  I  can  do,  and  as  I  am  greatly 
needed  on  a  maternity  case  down  the  river,  I  am  afraid 
I  cannot  stay  longer." 

After  he  had  driven  away,  Marty  went  into  the  sick 
room  and  Carter  walked  to  the  gate,  looking  at  the  bril 
liant  sunset.  He  thought  of  the  immensity  of  the  ma 
terial  universe,  and  then  the  idea  occurred  to  him  that 
the  power  behind  it  all  was  the  very  force  which  was 
then  working  upon  his  spirit  and  that  of  his  dying  brother. 

259 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"  What  can  I  do — what?"  he  asked  himself,  over  and  over. 
"And  I  must  do  something.  I  must — I  must!" 

At  twelve  o'clock  that  night  Marty  came  to  him  as  he 
lay,  partly  clothed,  on  his  bed. 

" Please  come!"  she  whispered.  "I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

Side  by  side  they  went  along  the  hall  to  the  door  of 
the  sick-room.  Carter  heard  Henry's  voice,  and  a  shock 
of  horror  went  over  him.  In  low,  harsh  tones  Henry 
was  cursing.  Oath  followed  oath;  obscene  words,  un 
mentionable  confessions  made  with  low,  satanic  chuckles, 
fell  from  his  lips.  As  they  entered  the  room  he  glared 
blankly  at  them,  and  they  saw  that  he  did  not  know 
them. 

"Hey,  you  fellows,  listen  to  this!"  He  laughed  and 
began  a  ribald  song  in  a  low,  piping  voice,  and  then  drifted 
into  a  story  of  the  vilest  order.  To  stop  the  sheer  horror 
of  the  thing  Carter  bent  over  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"How  do  you  feel,  brother?"  he  asked. 

Henry  stared  blankly  for  a  moment,  then  a  look  of 
recognition  gradually  dawned  in  his  eyes.  "Oh,  it's 
you!"  he  cried;  and  then  he  frowned  upon  Marty.  "Go 
away,  for  God's  sake,  woman,  go  away!"  he  cried.  "I 
can't  die  with  you  looking  at  me  like  that.  You — you,  of 
all!  Somehow,  some  way,  you  look  like — like  my  own 
mother  and  some  dirty  harlot  all  in  one.  Go  away!  Go 
away!" 

With  a  bewildered  stare  in  her  eyes,  a  welling  sob  in  her 
throat,  Marty  glided  from  the  room.  Carter  heard  her 
tiptoeing  along  the  hall  to  the  front  porch,  and  he  had 
a  mental  picture  of  her  standing  there,  looking  into  the 
night,  weeping  and  praying  desperately. 

"Oh,  Cart,  Cart" — Henry  seemed  unconscious  of  what 
he  had  just  said — ' '  can't  you  do  something  for  me  ?  May 
be  some  specialist — some  big  city  doctor — could  save  me. 
Telegraph  to  Atlanta.  You  are  rich,  one}  they  would 


THE    INNER    LAW 

come  on  the  first  train.  I  can't  give  up!  I  can't — I 
can't!  I've  had  dreams,  awful  dreams.  Cart,  I  dreamt 
that  I  was  at  the  gate  of  heaven,  unable  to  enter.  I 
dreamt  that  I  stood  there,  a  raging  devil,  cursing  God  and 
all  the  angels  of  light.  Oh,  Cart,  Cart,  don't  let  me  die 
—don't!" 

"I'll  go;  I'll  telegraph!"  Carter  gasped. 

He  went  out,  found  Marty  on  the  porch,  and  told  her 
what  Henry  wanted,  asking  her  how  he  could  get  to  the 
telegraph-office. 

"  There  is  no  way  to  go  now,"  she  said,  bluntly.  "  Can't 
you  see  that  he  is  dying?  The  doctor  knows  and  I  know 
he  can't  last  till  morning.  All  the  skill  on  earth  couldn't 
save  him.  He  is  doomed  or  he  couldn't  say  that  to  me." 

"Yes,  it  is  too  late,"  Carter  agreed.  "It  was  only  be 
cause  he  requested — " 

"Hush!  Listen!"  Marty  cried,  laying  her  stiff  hand 
on  his  breast. 

A  sound  of  harsh,  gurgling  breathing  came  to  them 
through  the  still  hall,  and  they  hastened  to  the  sick-room. 
Henry  lay,  his  head  off  the  pillow,  as  if  he  had  been  try 
ing  to  rise  in  a  last  supreme  effort.  He  was  unconscious, 
the  lids  of  his  eyes  opening  and  closing  spasmodically. 
Marty  raised  Henry's  head  and  put  it  on  the  pillow,  and 
as  she  did  so  all  sound  of  his  breathing  ceased.  The  face 
and  body  lay  motionless. 

"Oh,  I've  killed  him!"  Marty  cried.  "I  didn't  go  to 
do  it.  Oh!  Oh!" 

Carter  bent  over  his  brother's  face.  Presently  he  felt 
Henry's  breath  faintly  fanning  his  cheek  and  detected 
the  gentle  movement  of  the  low  chest. 

"No,  he  is  still  living,"  he  said.  "You've  only  made 
him  more  comfortable,  that's  all;  but  he  is  dying." 

Half  an  hour  later  it  was  over.  Carter  left  Marty 
drawing  a  clean  sheet,  which  she  had  washed  and  ironed 
with  her  own  hands,  over  her  dead  lover,  and  went  out  into 

261 


THE    INNER   LAW 

the  still  starlight.  He  breathed  in  the  moist  air  in  selfish 
relief.  Another  day,  he  reflected,  and  Henry's  body  would 
be  laid  in  the  little  plot  back  of  the  house,  where  lay  the 
remains  of  his  uncle,  of  his  aunt,  and  of  his  cousin  Tom. 
Then  he,  the  last  male  survivor  of  the  tragic  family,  would 
leave  the  spot,  never  to  see  it  again.  Among  men,  women, 
and  affairs,  books  and  things,  he  would  try  to  forget  it 
all,  and  yet  there  was  something  he  was  sure  he  would 
never  forget — never  cease  to  see.  It  was  that  last,  peace 
ful  look — that  eyeless  stare  of  wonder  and  pleased  ex 
pectancy — stamped  upon  the  rotting  lineaments  of  a 
corpse  resembling  himself. 


PART   IV 


CHAPTER  I 

TO  obtain  diversion,  to  avoid  contact  with  the  things 
which  reminded  him  so  keenly  of  the  past,  which  he 
now  loathed  with  a  slowly  awakening  soul  for  higher 
things,  Carter  Crofton  returned  to  New  York.  A  change 
had  come  over  him  which  only  an  experienced  psychologist 
could  fully  explain.  He  had  begun  to  feel,  as  all  the  great 
mystics  of  the  past  have  felt,  that  luxurious  living  was 
fundamentally  wrong.  He  had  learned  from  Tolstoy  and 
others  that  the  gradations  of  selfishness  were  innumer 
able,  and  that  even  the  finest  form  of  it  was  more  or  less 
wrong;  the  grosser  forms  wrong  to  gross  men,  and  the 
finest  forms  wrong  to  those  who  have  partial  visions  of 
infinite  truth,  and  yet  remain  too  material  to  quite  shake 
off  the  clinging  demands  of  the  flesh.  So  Crofton  had 
come  to  be  almost  in  terror  of  his  own  wealth,  and  to 
wonder  what  he  would  ultimately  do  with  it.  He  saw 
poor  men  happy,  their  faces  lighted  up  with  content  over 
their  humble  work,  and,  while  he  envied  them  their  lot, 
he  began  to  feel  sure  that  the  whole  discordance  of  his 
life  had  risen  primarily  from  his  father's  selfish  accumu 
lation,  and  his  own  more  than  selfish  use  of  his  share  of 
it.  This  reasoning  made  him  more  generous  with  every 
one,  especially  the  poor.  He  did  not  often  give  to  per 
sons  who  knew  him,  but  he  gave  freely  to  needy  strangers, 
exulting  over  the  secret  thought  that  he  was  obeying  the 
divine  precept  that  one  should  not  let  his  left  hand  know 
what  his  right  did. 

So  when  he  reached  New  York  he  shrank  instinctively 

265 


THE   INNER   LAW 

from  going  to  the  fashionable  hotel  where  he  had  stayed 
a  short  time  before.  Through  an  advertisement  in  one 
of  the  morning  papers  he  secured  a  very  inexpensive  room 
in  the  unpretentious  house  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lampson, 
an  aged  couple,  in  West  Ninetieth  Street.  The  quiet, 
homelike  simplicity  of  the  place  appealed  to  his  tired 
fancy;  he  liked  the  old  people,  and  they  seemed  to  like 
him  from  the  start.  It  pleased  him  to  think  that  they 
knew  nothing  of  him  and  that  they  would  judge  him  for 
what  he  showed  himself  to  be  intrinsically.  He  told 
them  that  he  was  a  literary  man  and  a  student,  and 
they  were  not  curious  to  know  more,  evidently  regarding 
him  as  a  bachelor  of  limited  means,  as  his  simple  manner 
of  living  and  plain  attire  suggested. 

An  idea  had  come  to  him  that  he  would,  if  possible, 
stay  out  of  all  contact  with  people  and  things  belonging 
to  his  past,  so  he  had  his  letters  and  business  communi 
cations  forwarded  to  him  by  his  New  York  bankers,  who 
were  instructed  not  to  mention  to  any  one  the  address 
of  his  residence. 

He  was  now  occupied  with  the  rarest  pursuit  known  to 
those  intellectual  men  who  have  renounced  dogmatic 
belief,  and  yet  ardently  desire  as  far  as  possible  to  solve 
the  "Great  Mystery."  He  was  trying  to  prove  to  him 
self  that  there  was  an  infinite  meaning  to  life.  He  often 
told  himself  that  if  such  men  as  Jesus,  Kant,  Rousseau, 
Socrates,  Plato,  not  to  mention  hundreds  of  modern  seri 
ous  thinkers  of  note,  had  satisfied  themselves  of  their  own 
continuance  in  another  and  higher  life,  such  an  assur 
ance  might  be  found  even  for  him,  and  that  was  what  he 
now  craved  almost  to  the  point  of  monomania. 

He  spent  at  least  half  of  every  day  reading  in  the  great 
reference-room  of  the  Public  Library,  the  remainder  was 
given  to  walks  in  the  streets  or  parks.  He  had  always  had 
the  knack  of  gaining  prompt  and  easy  access  to  the  com 
panionship  of  strangers,  and  now,  under  the  thought  that 

266 


THE   INNER   LAW 

he  would  not  be  apt  to  meet  such  persons  a  second  time, 
and  that  no  two  of  them  would  compare  notes  and  dis 
cover  the  single  trend  of  his  mind,  he  made  a  point  of 
drawing  them  into  the  subject  which  had  so  completely 
absorbed  him.  Was  any  human  being  immortal!  If  so 
he  himself  was,  and  if  he  was  immortal,  then  there  was  a 
reason  for  all  he  had  been  through  and  was  then  experienc 
ing.  The  idea  that  he  might  be  an  earthly  pupil  in  an 
eternal  school  of  spiritual  evolution  raised  him  to  a  trans 
cendental  height. 

He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  talking  aloud  to  himself 
as  he  strolled  about  in  quiet  places,  and  he  prayed.  He 
prayed  oftener  when  he  recalled  Henry's  death,  which 
he  had  come  to  look  upon  as  his  own  death,  for  he  knew 
his  own  was  quite  as  certain  and  physically  would  amount 
to  the  same. 

One  temporary  phase  of  his  pursuit  was  unusual  for 
a  man  of  his  type.  He  had  read  a  good  many  of  the  works 
issued  by  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research  and  its  mem 
bers  in  England  and  America,  and  in  his  coversations  with 
strangers  he  frequently  inquired  if  they  or  their  friends 
had  had  such  experiences  as  that  society  has  recorded, 
investigated,  and  published.  And  the  result  of  these 
inquiries  surprised  him  greatly,  for  almost  daily  he  was 
told  marvelous  things  by  persons  whose  sincerity  he  had 
no  cause  to  doubt. 

He  heard  of  a  certain  spiritualistic  medium  who  was 
said  to  have  wonderful  power  of  divination,  and  he  at 
tended  one  of  her  afternoon  seances,  although  he  had 
learned  that  such  meetings  were  contrary  to  the  law. 
He  was  admitted  by  a  servant-girl,  to  whom  he  paid  the 
required  fee  of  one  dollar,  into  a  long,  gas-lighted  parlor 
where  he  found  about  a  score  of  men  and  women  seated 
in  chairs  against  the  wall.  In  the  center  of  the  room, 
walking  to  and  fro,  was  a  blond  woman  of  middle  age 
and  medium  height,  who  weighed  over  two  hundred  and 

267 


THE   INNER   LAW 

fifty  pounds.  She  was  dressed  as  fancifully  as  a  young 
girl,  and  seemed  proud  of  the  adoration  of  her  audience, 
all  of  whom  seemed  to  be  habitues  of  the  meetings.  When 
Carter  was  shown  in  the  medium  approached  him  and 
gave  him  a  fat  hand  heavily  decorated  with  rings,  and 
smiled  cordially. 

"This  is  your  first  visit,"  she  said. 

"I've  only  been  in  the  city  a  short  while,"  he  returned, 
pleasantly. 

"But  you  are  interested  in  spiritualism,  I'm  sure,"  she 
went  on,  still  smiling  agreeably,  and  toying  with  a  great 
red  rose  which  some  one  of  the  audience  had  brought  to 
her. 

"Yes,  naturally,"  he  said;  "but  if  you  will  excuse  me 
for  it,  I  will  admit  frankly  that  I  am  a  doubting  Thomas." 

"They  all  are  at  first''  she  laughed,  softly;  "then  some 
slight  thing  shows  them  that  I  know  more  than  they 
think  I  do,  and  then  they  come  often  enough  to  be  wholly 
convinced  in  the  end.  By  the  way,  how  did  you  leave 
the  South?" 

"The  South?"  he  said.  "Then  you  think  I  am  a 
Southerner?" 

"I?  Oh  no,  not  I  myself.  Such  information  is  always 
given  me  by  the  spirits.  There  is  an  elderly  lady  with 
you."  Here  the  medium  put  her  hand  over  her  closed 
eyes  and  remained  silent  a  moment.  "Ah!  she  may 
give  you  a  message  later.  She  is  your  mother,  I  know  that. 
I  see  an  old-fashioned  Southern  home,  and  negroes  all 
about.  But  I  can't  get  more  for  you  just  now;  they  are 
pressing  around  you — other  relatives,  I  mean — all  try 
ing  to  speak  to  you.  They  know  they  can  use  me,  you 
see.  I'm  what  the  spirits  call  'a  light.'  I  must  go  to 
work  now;  all  these  good  people  are  waiting  on  me.  I 
may  have  a  message  for  you.  I  can't  say  positively,  but 
I  may." 

She  left  him  and  took  her  place  on  a  low  platform  at 

268 


THE   INNER   LAW 

the  end  of  the  room,  where  two  heavy  dark-green  curtains 
hung  ready  to  be  drawn  together.  The  gas  in  the  room 
was  lowered  till  the  faces  in  the  group  were  unrecognizable 
one  to  the  other.  She  announced  in  her  natural  voice 
that  after  a  few  moments,  in  which  she  wished  a  hymn 
to  be  sung,  she  would  become  entranced,  and  while  in 
that  condition  she  would  become  possessed  by  her  "con 
trol,"  a  young  girl  known  as  "Sunbeam,"  who  had  died 
during  the  Civil  War.  The  curtains  were  drawn.  Carter 
heard  a  chair  groan  as  she  sat  down  in  it.  Then  some  one 
near  the  platform  began  to  sing  "Lead,  Kindly  Light," 
and  when  it  was  over  a  low,  girlish  laugh  was  heard  from 
behind  the  curtains. 

"How  are  you,  everybody?"  the  childlike  voice  piped 
up,  in  tones  which  to  Crofton  bore  a  strong  resemblance 
to  the  medium's  natural  utterance. 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,  Sunbeam,"  a  woman  cried 
out  from  the  dark  human  line  opposite  Crofton.  "How 
are  you,  to-day?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  Sunbeam  answered  in  rippling 
tones.  "We  are  always  right  on  this  side.  We  have 
nothing  to  bother  us  but  you  poor  people  who  are  still 
sleeping  in  the  dark.  We  feel  like  shaking  you  sometimes, 
you  stupid  things!" 

Thereupon  followed  many  eager  questions  from  the 
audience,  to  which  Sunbeam  gave  answers  which  were 
evidently  satisfactory.  A  tailor  wanted  to  ask  his  dead 
father  if  he  should  continue  to  pay  for  his  shop  as  much 
rent  as  his  landlord  was  demanding. 

"If  you  can't  make  him  more  reasonable,  give  in  to 
him,"  was  the  prompt  response.  "Things  are  coming  out 
well  for  you,  Mr.  Weinmeister.  I  can't  explain  how  just 
now,  but  everything  seems  bright  ahead  for  you." 

A  young  woman  wanted  to  know  of  her  departed 
brother,  whom  she  called  "Frank,"  if  she  should  continue 
to  take  the  tonic  she  was  using  for  indigestion,  and  was 

269 


THE    INNER    LAW 

told  that  she  might  take  it  at  least  two  weeks  longer, 
but  that  she  must  constantly  have  outdoor  exercise  and 
not  worry.  All  these  things  were  boring  and  disgusting 
Crofton,  and  he  wanted  to  get  away,  but  did  not  know 
how  to  do  so  without  disturbing  the  others,  for  the  door 
was  closed,  and  he  could  not  see  his  way  to  it  through  the 
darkness.  Suddenly  Sunbeam  called  out: 

"The  gentleman  from  the  South  is  impatient.  South 
erners  are  impatient  as  well  as  hot-headed  in  a  fight  or 
politics,"  she  laughed.  "His  mother  is  here.  She  knows 
he  has  had  disappointment,  grief,  or  trouble,  and  wants 
me  to  tell  him  that  he  worries  too  much.  It  will  kill 
him  if  he  doesn't  stop." 

At  this  point  Crofton  found  courage  to  speak  out.  He 
wanted  more  proof  of  the  genuineness  of  the  thing  than  he 
had  had.  "You  say  I  am  from  the  South,"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  my  name?" 

"Ah,  there  you  are  breaking  the  rules  of  the  game, 
sir,"  Sunbeam  tittered.  "Names  used  on  earth  are  sel 
dom  ever  recalled  by  us  on  this  side.  It  is  hard  to  ex 
plain,  but  we  have  no  longer  any  use  for  them.  Mine 
was — was —  I  declare  I  don't  remember." 

"Well,  what  can  you  tell  me  that  I  ought  to  know," 
Crofton  said,  coldly. 

"This  much,"  was  the  obviously  resentful  reply,  "and 
that  is  that  you  want  to  understand  these  things  very 
much,  but  you  have  now  a  frame  of  mind  that  will  pre 
vent  you  from  getting  at  the  truth.  You  doubt  every 
thing  you  see  and  hear  in  this  room.  I  am  never  able 
to  satisfy  a  doubting  person,  and  I  no  longer  try.  I  tell 
you  now,  however,  that  I  can  help  you  in  your  business 
if  you  will  come  to  my  meetings  like  the  rest  of  these 
people,  and  not  always  be  on  the  lookout  for  fraud." 

"My  business?"  Crofton  sneered.  "I  have  no  busi 
ness." 

"You  say  you  have  no  business?"  The  voice  fell  al- 

270 


THE    INNER    LAW 

most  into  the  coarser  tone  of  the  medium's  normal  voice. 
"You  see,  sir,  what  you  mean  and  what  I  mean  are  dif 
ferent  things.  I  use  the  word  'business'  for  everything 
that  a  person  is  engaged  in.  Your  business  at  present  is 
getting  this  spiritual  question  settled.  Am  I  on  the  right 
track?" 

"Perhaps,"  he  answered;  "still,  you  have  not  told  me 
anything  that  is  at  all  convincing." 

"I  haven't,  eh?  Well,  it  is  only  your  own  fault. 
What — what  is  it  back  there?  Don't  all  speak  at  once. 
I'm  under  an  awful  strain  to-day.  Tell  him  what?  What 
is  it  you  want  him  to  know?  You  are  his  brother,  eh? 
You  look  dazed.  You  haven't  been  over  here  long.  Now, 
now,  that  will  do.  I  will  tell  him — if  I  can,  but  I'm  sure 
when  I  get  back  on  the  earth  plane  it  will  slip  from  me." 

"Did  you  say  it  was  my  brother?"  Carter  asked. 

"That  is  what  he  says,"  the  medium  answered.  "He 
told  me  something  he  wanted  you  to  know,  but  I  can't 
remember  it.  If  you  will  come  here  again  I  may  be  able 
to  tell  you,  but  not  to-day.  I've  given  you  a  lot  of  my 
force.  I'm  as  weak  as  a  sick  kitten."  Here  Sunbeam 
laughed  softly.  "Hush!  'sh — sh!  That  same  fellow  is 
tugging  and  pulling  at  me.  He  is  a  desperate,  miserable 
shade  of  a  man,  anyway.  They  are  calling  him  back 
there,  his  mother  and  father  and  an  uncle,  I  think  he  is — 
yes,  his  uncle.  I  hear  the  name — Hal — Hal — Hen — Hen — 
Henry !  Henry — yes,  that  is  right — Henry.  Henry  some 
thing  or  other.  It  begins  with  a  C,  but  that  is  all  I  know. 
Folks,  I'm  plumb  fagged  out.  You  must  all  go  away  now. 
I'll  see  you,  as  usual,  next  meeting." 

The  gas  was  turned  up;  a  curtain  at  the  window  on  the 
street  was  raised;  the  sunlight  blended  with  that  of  the 
gas,  showing  faces  from  which  Crofton  shrank  instinctive 
ly  as  belonging  to  persons  of  materialistic  tendencies.  In 
the  crowded  hall  he  found  himself  close  to  a  short,  bald, 
middle-aged  man. 

271 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"You  had  luck,"  the  man  said,  his  eyes  blinking  almost 
timidly  behind  a  pair  of  double-thick  glasses. 

"Luck?  What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Crofton  asked, 
impatiently. 

"Why,  she  told  you  a  lot  for  a  first  visit.  I  came  here 
five  times  before  she  ever  gave  me  as  much  as  she  did 
you.  I  lost  my  wife  three  years  ago.  I  was  miserable  till 
I  happened  to  hear  of  Madam's  wonderful  power.  I 
wouldn't  take  a  fortune  for  what  she's  told  me.  I  get  a 
message  at  least  once  a  week  from  my  wife.  She  says 
she  is  waiting  for  me  on  the  other  side.  That's  comfort, 
isn't  it,  when  up  to  that  time  I  didn't  believe  I  was  any 
more  than  a  hog?  Now  I  know  what  is  ahead." 

"Has  this  medium  ever  told  you  a  single  thing  that  you 
did  not  already  know?"  Crofton  asked,  sharply.  They 
were  on  the  stoop  outside  now,  and  the  man  made  no 
answer  till  they  had  reached  the  pavement.  He  seemed 
to  be  reflecting. 

"I  can't  say  she  has,  exactly,"  he  answered,  presently; 
"but — but  I'm  satisfied.  Didn't  you  like  what  she  told 
you?" 

"She  told  me  nothing  that  I  did  not  know,"  Crofton 
said  in  a  tone  of  contempt.  "Thought-reading — even 
subconscious  thought-reading — is  an  established  fact,  as 
is  telepathy  and  other  psychic  phenomena.  In  my  opin 
ion  this  woman  is  a  fraud  and  ought  to  be  arrested." 

"You  don't  mean  that,  surely?"  The  man  shrank 
back  in  surprise. 

"I  certainly  do,"  Crofton  answered,  sharply.  "She 
has  deluded  you,  for  one." 

He  left  the  man  staring  dumbly  after  him  as  he  strode 
away.  Crofton  was  thoroughly  disgusted.  He  felt  as  if 
he  had  pulled  a  beautiful  ideal  down  into  the  mire.  He 
told  himself  that  if  he  could  not  arrive  at  the  great  truth 
which  he  was  seeking  by  a  more  worthy  means  he  would 
give  up  the  pursuit  of  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

HE  had  never  felt  more  lonely  and  discouraged  in  his 
life  than  he  did  that  night  when  he  went  to  his  room 
to  go  to  bed.  The  old  couple  were  entertaining  visitors 
in  the  back  parlor.  Their  daughter,  son-in-law,  and 
two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  had  come  in  from  a  subur 
ban  town  to  spend  a  few  days.  Mr.  Lampson  heard  his 
latch-key  in  the  lock  and  hastened  out  to  invite  him  in  to 
meet  his  guests  and  partake  of  some  beer  and  a  rarebit 
which  the  son-in-law  was  making.  But  Crofton  excused 
himself  and  went  on  up  to  his  room. 

It  was  not  ten  o'clock,  and  yet  he  began  to  prepare  for 
bed.  Some  one,  he  was  sure,  from  the  touch  on  the  keys, 
that  it  was  a  child,  began  playing  the  piano.  The  simple 
air  ended,  and  the  older  people  clapped  their  hands  and 
shouted  in  admiration. 

"Splendid!  Splendid!"  It  was  Mr.  Lampson's  voice. 
"Now,  come  sit  on  my  knee  and  give  'old  granddad'  a 
hug,  you  little  beauty!" 

Crofton  closed  his  door  to  shut  out  the  sounds  of  merri 
ment. 

"What  is  the  use?"  he  asked  himself.  " How  can  I  pos 
sibly  go  on  like  this  ?"  Suddenly  he  bethought  of  his  mor 
phine,  took  the  bottle  from  his  pocket,  and  fondled  it  in 
his  sweat-damp  palm.  "More  than  enough  to  put  me 
out  of  it  all,"  he  reflected.  "They  say  it  is  a  painless 
sleep,  a  soothing  glide  off  into  eternal  nothingness.  Why 
shouldn't  I  end  it  all?  Why?" 

He  shook  out  some  of  the  tablets  into  his  hand.  "  That 
would  be  enough,"  he  said.  "They  would  find  me  here 

18  273 


THE   INNER   LAW 

in  the  morning,  looking  like — like  Henry  did.  My  God! 
I'd  look  like  that!  I'd  be  like  that!  Lydia  Romley  might 
hear  of  it  through  some  newspaper  and  know  that  she  was 
at  last  avenged.  She  would  feel  relieved,  perhaps.  Oh, 
how  beautiful  she  was  that  day  in  Washington!  She 
has  risen  in  spite  of  the  blight  I  left  upon  her,  while  I 
have  sunk  down,  down  to  this,  and  what  could  be  worse 
— what  more  just?" 

Obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  he  put  the  tablets  back  into 
the  bottle  and  dropped  it  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  fin 
ished  disrobing  and  got  into  bed,  and  lay  there  trying 
to  compose  his  mind  for  sleep. 

He  waked  the  next  morning  with  a  headache  and  feel 
ing  even  more  despondent  than  ever.  He  thought  of 
going  to  the  Public  Library  to  read,  but  gave  up  the  idea, 
for  he  was  in  no  mood  for  reading.  In  fact,  there  was  no 
subject  which  interested  him  now  except  the  one  he  had 
entertained  the  night  before — suicide,  and  it  both  charmed 
and  repelled  him. 

He  thought  of  it  as  he  sat  in  the  little  restaurant,  drink 
ing  his  coffee.  He  wondered  what  the  jovial  young  Irish 
waitress,  with  that  rosy  glow  on  her  cheeks  and  those 
smiling  pink  lips,  would  think  if  she  knew  she  was  serving 
a  man  who  was  going  to  die  by  his  own  hand.  He  was 
sure  now  that  he  would  not  live  till  the  sun  set  that  day. 
Indeed,  when  he  left  the  restaurant  he  began  deliberately 
to  plan  the  gruesome  act.  He  had  read  of  persons  who 
had  taken  their  lives  out  in  quiet,  shaded  retreats  in  the 
open  air.  That  was  good,  he  told  himself,  for  it  would 
be  dying  on  the  bosom  of  Nature  like  a  starved  animal, 
a  bird  with  broken  wings,  or  a  reptile — reptile!  Why  had 
he  thought  of  that?  He  thought  of  Lydia,  and  a  sob  of 
self-pity  rose  and  hung  in  his  throat.  Oh,  if  only  she 
would  forgive  him — she  whom  he  had  wronged  so  terribly, 
and  whom  he  had  loved  and  still  loved  with  a  passion 
which  he  was  now  beginning  to  understand. 

274 


THE    INNER    LAW 

He  found  himself  at  the  Subway  station  at  Ninety- 
sixth  Street,  and  entered  the  up-town  side  with  a  throng 
of  passengers.  On  the  concrete  below  the  street  he  stood 
hesitating,  not  knowing  what  he  would  do.  He  allowed 
several  trains  to  pass  him,  and  then,  seeing  one  marked 
Van  Cortlandt  Park,  he  went  in  and  sat  down.  A  merry 
party  of  young  men  and  girls  with  golf -bags  sat  across  the 
aisle  and  were  laughing  merrily.  They  were  going  to 
play  a  game  with  sticks  and  balls  on  a  sward  of  green! 
while  he  was  going  out  to  die.  How  wretched  life  was, 
These  young  fools  would  realize  it  sooner  or  later.  Had 
life  not  once  been  as  bright  to  him,  and  what  was  it  now  ? 

At  Dyckman  Street  he  left  the  train,  for  he  had  got  a 
glimpse  of  the  sheer,  brown  cliffs  of  the  Palisades  on  the 
New  Jersey  shore  across  the  Hudson,  and  remembered 
that  there  was  a  small  motor-ferryboat  at  the  foot  of  the 
street  which  took  passengers  over  every  few  minutes. 
Leaving  the  train,  he  walked  along  the  street  till  he  saw 
a  brown,  brawny  boatman  waving  a  red  flag  and  shouting : 

"Ferry!  Ferry!  This  way,  please!  First  boat  to 
Jersey!" 

The  little  launch  was  almost  filled  with  eager  excur 
sionists.  Some  Boy  Scouts,  in  brown-duck  uniforms, 
with  tents,  cooking  utensils,  and  axes  in  unwieldy  bundles, 
were  loading  a  flatboat  which  was  rocking  alongside  the 
float.  Several  young  men  and  young  girls  in  attractive 
bathing-suits  were  getting  into  canoes.  Most  of  the 
young  men  were  smoking  cigarettes.  A  sweet-faced 
woman  sat  next  to  Crofton,  holding  a  big  basket  filled 
with  provisions.  She  was  explaining  to  another  woman 
opposite  that  her  three  little  sons  were  living  in  a  tent 
among  the  campers  on  the  other  side,  and  that  she  was 
going  over  to  see  how  they  were  getting  on.  After  the 
boat  had  started  a  girl  in  the  stern  began  to  play  a  man 
dolin,  and  her  companion,  a  handsome  young  man  in  a  red 
sweater,  white-duck  trousers,  and  tennis  shoes,  began  to 

275 


THE    INNER   LAW 

sing.  Some  of  the  passengers  joined  in.  The  boatman, 
busy  at  the  wheel,  made  a  jest  about  taking  up  a  collec 
tion,  and  everybody  laughed  except  Crofton.  How  could 
he  laugh?  The  very  care-free  merriment  of  the  others 
grated  on  him.  How  could  they  be  so  joyous?  He  told 
himself  bitterly  that  they  were  mere  human  flies  buzzing 
before  the  cobweb  trap  of  life  in  the  depths  of  which  lay 
hidden  a  monster  which,  sooner  or  later,  would  devour 
their  bodies  and  souls.  What  would  they  think  of  the 
part  he  was  to  play  in  the  day's  program?  Would  it  stop 
their  insane  merriment  for  a  minute? 

A  great  steamer  bound  for  Albany  had  just  passed. 
Its  decks  were  filled  with  passengers.  It  threw  off  huge 
waves  which  caused  the  little  ferryboat  to  rise  and  fall 
like  a  floating  nutshell,  and  the  spray  to  dash  over  the 
merrymakers.  They  passed  a  young  man  swimming 
toward  the  Jersey  shore  with  strong,  even  strokes. 

"He  is  going  across  again,"  the  boatman  told  a  man  at 
his  side.  "I  know  him.  He  does  it  once  a  week.  One 
of  these  days  he  will  go  down  with  the  cramps.  He  is 
tired  now,  but  it  would  make  him  mad  if  I  offered  to  take 
him  aboard." 

"Hey,  want  a  cigar,  Joe?"  he  jestingly  called  out  to  the 
swimmer. 

"No,  thanks,"  was  the  answer. 

The  landing  was  made.  The  boatman  sprang  upon  the 
pier,  drew  a  rope  around  a  post,  and  began  to  help  the 
women  out.  The  pier  was  quite  long,  and  from  its  sides 
men  and  boys  were  throwing  out  crab-nets.  The  beach 
was  level  and  sandy,  and  there  were  bath-houses  and 
floats  for  bathers.  Canoes  of  many  brilliant  colors  and 
several  launches  and  rowboats  gave  almost  a  Venetian 
touch  to  the  scene.  The  blue  water  was  alive  with  swim 
mers,  who  were  shrieking  from  the  pure  joy  of  life.  All 
along  the  wooded  shore  at  the  immediate  foot  of  the  brown 
cliffs  stood  the  white  tents  of  campers  from  the  city, 

37$ 


THE   INNER   LAW 

Leaving  the  pier,  Crofton  took  a  winding  path  which 
led  into  the  dense  shade  of  a  veritable  jungle  of  trees, 
underbrush,  wild  vines,  and  mossy,  gray  boulders.  He 
looked  up  the  side  of  the  great  natural  wall  and  wished 
it  would  lean  forward,  crack,  groan,  fall  upon  him  and 
bury  him  from  the  sight  of  mankind  for  ever. 

He  had  walked  northward  perhaps  half  a  mile  before 
he  saw  a  spot  which  seemed  retired  enough  for  his  purpose. 
It  was  a  nook  thickly  clothed  in  dogwood  and  sassafras 
bushes  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the  path  on  his  left. 
The  ground  was  uneven;  covered  with  jagged  stones,  and 
the  incline  was  steep ;  but  he  finally  reached  it  and  sat  down 
with  his  back  against  a  cool  foot-stone  of  the  vast  cliff. 
He  told  himself  that  the  spot  was  suitable.  What  more 
fitting  than  that  last  view  of  the  sun  across  the  water, 
and  the  far-off  white  line  of  the  city's  apartment-houses  ? 
for  he  was  done  with  it  all.  The  first  stood  for  relentless 
Nature,  the  other  was  the  useless  work  of  Nature's  blind 
and  stupid  victims.  Shouts  and  songs  came  from  the 
camps  along  the  shore  below.  How  could  they  be  so 
contented?  Had  they  never  suffered  or  seen  suffering  in 
others?  Had  they  never  pleaded  with  God  to  tell  them 
the  awful  meaning  of  life,  and  been  beaten  by  the  mad 
dening  silence  of  the  unknowable? 

He  took  from  his  pocket  his  little  bottle  and  kissed  it. 
He  shook  out  the  tablets  one  by  one  into  a  palm  which 
appeared  to  him  to  be  paler,  more  bloodless,  and  more 
clammy  than  ever  before.  The  five-pronged  thing  with 
its  polished  nails  was  steady.  He  marveled  over  that, 
and  held  out  his  arm  at  full  length.  It,  too,  was  steady. 
He  himself  was  steady.  His  pulse  was  beating  no 
quicker  than  usual.  Why  wait?  Why  wait?  he  asked 
himself.  One  by  one  he  would  swallow  the  tablets  till 
he  had  taken  enough,  then  he  would  lie  back  and  sleep — 
sleep! 

He  was  about  to  take  the  first  tablet  when  he  heard 

277 


THE    INNER    LAW 

some  one  idly  whistling  not  far  from  him.  Quickly  con 
cealing  the  morphine,  he  looked  about  him.  Presently 
he  discovered,  a  few  yards  above  him,  on  a  vine-hung 
shelf  of  the  cliff,  a  young  man  with  a  pencil  and  a  pad  of 
paper  on  his  knee.  He  was  busy  writing  even  while  he 
whistled.  He  was  tall,  well  formed,  athletic  in  build, 
had  a  smooth,  sun-browned  face,  neck,  and  hands,  hazel 
eyes,  and  a  thick  shock  of  dark  hair,  which  he  wore  rather 
long  and  carelessly  roached  back  from  a  fine  brow.  Crof- 
ton  watched  him  for  several  minutes,  and  presently  the 
other,  looking  down,  caught  his  eye. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  saw  you  climb 
up  there  just  now,  and  started  to  warn  you  to  look  out. 
There  are  a  lot  of  rattlesnakes  around  us.  I've  scared  up 
two  or  three  this  morning,  myself." 

"Thank  you  very  much."  Crofton  shuddered  at  the 
sudden  sound  of  his  voice. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  day,  isn't  it?"  the  younger  man  said, 
agreeably.  "May  I  ask  if  you  happen  to  have  a  match? 
I'm  dying  for  a  smoke.  I  had  some,  but  I  got  them  wet 
in  my  canoe."-  On  receiving  an  affirmative  reply  he 
took  a  big  pipe  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  fill  it  with 
tobacco.  "Don't  get  up,"  he  cried;  "I'm  coming  that 
way.  I've  got  to  go  down  to  my  tent  to  cook  some  lunch. 
I  am  as  hungry  as  a  bear." 

Crofton  had  taken  some  matches  from  his  pocket,  and 
the  young  man  started  down  to  him.  He  tripped  on  a 
rolling  stone,  slid  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  with  a  merry 
laugh  got  up,  his  pipe  still  between  his  fine  white  teeth. 

"I'm  always  doing  that  stunt,"  he  said,  flushing  be 
neath  his  dark  skin,  his  deep  brown  eyes  seeming  to  smile 
behind  their  thick  lashes.  "Thank  you,  thank  you,  very 
much,  sir,"  taking  the  matches.  "  I  simply  go  crazy  when 
I  can't  smoke.  Oh,  I  say,  sir,  look  where  you  are  sitting!" 
He  was  pointing  the  stem  of  his  pipe  at  the  thick,  dark- 
leaved  vines  upon  which  Crofton  sat.  "Don't  you  know 

278 


THE   INNER   LAW 

that  plant?  It's  poison  ivy.  It  plays  the  very  devil 
with  the  skin  this  time  of  the  year  when  the  pores  are  open. 
I  had  a  dose  of  it  three  years  ago  when  I  and  some  other 
fellows  were  camping  over  here." 

"I  didn't  know  what  it  was,"  Crofton  answered,  rising 
and  moving  to  a  fallen  tree,  where  he  sat  down.  "  I  don't 
think  I  touched  it  with  my  hands." 

"Oh,  I  guess  you've  escaped  it  this  time."  The  young 
man  had  lighted  his  pipe,  and  as  he  puffed  the  smoke  from 
his  mouth  he  bent  over  the  ivy  leaves  and  examined  them 
closely.  "Isn't  it  queer  that  they  haven't  the  same  nor 
mal  look  as  ordinary  leaves?" 

"I  had  not  thought  of  it,"  Crofton  answered. 

"I  wonder  if  I  have  a  special  sight  for  such  things?" 
the  other  continued,  as  if  speaking  half  to  himself,  and 
bending  lower.  "I  sometimes  fancy  that  I  see  a  deeper 
meaning  in  natural  things  than  many  of  my  friends  do." 
He  raised  his  eyes  with  an  expression  almost  of  earnest 
appeal.  "For  instance,  it  seems  to  me  that  these  leaves 
have  their  noisome  character  stamped  upon  them  like  the 
faces  of  some  disagreeable  people.  See  how — how  vil 
lainous,  how  different  from  other  plants  they  look!  I've 
seen  a  stout  young  oak  actually  killed  by  their  twining 
about  its  trunk.  Of  course  plants  feel,  think,  and  know 
what  pertains  to  their  welfare,  and  the  beautiful  and  use 
ful  ones,  with  their  flowers  and  their  fruits,  must  heartily 
detest  these  contemptible  things." 

"I  presume  so."  Crof ton's  thoughts  were  quite  drawn 
from  himself  and  his  troubles  by  the  youth's  attractive 
appearance  and  original  talk.  "You  must  be  a  great 
student?"  he  added,  his  glance  now  on  the  pad  and 
pencil.  "And  do  you  write,  too?" 

"  Yes,  I  write  more  or  less,  and  I'm  a  regular  book  fiend," 
the  other  laughed!  "As  for  my  writings,  I  am  not  sure 
yet  what  they  amount  to.  I  think  I  am  peculiar,  for 
everybody  says  so.  They  call  me  a  crank.  It  used  to 

279 


THE   INNER   LAW 

make  me  very  unhappy.  I  worried  about  it  a  great  deal, 
and  finally  I  determined  to  find  out  what  was  wrong  with 
me  and  sought  the  explanation  in  books." 

"Wrong  with  you?  Why  do  you  put  it  that  way?" 
Crofton  asked. 

"Well,  it  was  an  uncomfortable  feeling,  anyway." 
The  speaker  sat  down  on  the  log  beside  Crofton  and  con 
tracted  his  brows  thoughtfully.  "You  see,  I  am  always 
finding  that  the  things  which  interest  me  most  are  abso 
lute  foolishness  to  everybody  about  me,  and  my  friends 
do  not  hesitate  to  tell  me  so  whenever  I  open  my  mouth 
on  any  subject  that  claims  my  attention." 

"WTiat  subject,  for  instance,  if  you  would  not  mind 
making  your  meaning  a  little  clearer?"  Crofton  leaned 
forward  almost  eagerly. 

"There  you  go!"  the  youth  laughed.  "You  ask  that 
like  the  average  practical  person  that  takes  me  to  task, 
and  if  I  give  you  a  straightforward  answer  from  my  heart 
you  will  no  doubt  think  I  am  silly,  and  deny  my  statement 
as  all  the  rest  do.  I  sometimes  think,  from  books  I've 
read,  that  I  am  a  mystic,  and  I  don't  say  it  boastingly, 
you  see,  for  very  uneducated  persons — shoemakers,  tai 
lors,  and  the  like  are  often  mystics." 

"What  is  your  definition  of  the  word  'mystic'?"  Crof 
ton  inquired,  even  more  interested. 

"Oh,  the  regular  philosophical  one,  I  suppose,"  the 
youth  said,  with  another  of  his  characteristic  frowns.  "I 
think  a  mystic  is  a  person  with  a  highly  developed  power 
of  sensing  the  infinite  spirit  of  the  universe  within  himself, 
and,  that  being  so,  he  comprehends  the  unimportance  of 
the  visible  material  things  which  the  ordinary  world  not 
only  values,  but  worships.  That  frame  of  mind  isolates 
him,  you  see,  from  the  rest  of  his  kind.  But  I  am  boring 
you,  I  am  sure." 

"Oh  no,  you  are  not!"  Crofton  declared.  "In  fact,  I 
am  very,  very  much  interested.  I  have  read  these  things  in 

280 


THE    INNER   LAW 

the  works  of  old  philosophers,  but  never  expected  to  find 
that  they  were  believed  in  by  one  so  young  as  yourself. 
You  certainly  think  deeply  and  also  you  seem  to  believe 
in  God." 

' '  Believe  in  God  ?  who  doesn't  ?"  the  boy  replied.  "Ah" 
— he  dropped  a  sudden  sympathetic  and  probing  glance 
on  Crof ton's  face — "now  I  understand  you  better.  I  was 
wondering  what  was — was  odd  about  you.  I  felt  it — I 
felt  that  you  were  out  of  harmony  somehow,  and  now 
that  I  look  at  you  more  closely  I  see  marks  of  suffering 
in  your  face.  You  have  suffered,  have  you  not?" 

"I've  always  been  morbid,"  Crof  ton  answered,  with 
desperate  candor.  "I  have  never  been  able  to  quite  con 
quer  the  tendency.  It  has  clung  to  me  since  I  was  a 
young  man,  and  increased  till  at  times  it  is  almost  un 
bearable." 

"I  see."  The  youth  gravely  refilled  his  pipe,  packing 
the  tobacco  down  into  the  big  bowl  with  a  slender  finger. 
"I  wish  I  could  help  you,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  There 
is  one  single  thing,  and  one  thing  only  that  will  cure  a 
man  of  your  disease,  and  no  one  can  give  it  to  him.  He 
has  to  have  if  naturally.  It  is  expressed  in  one  short 
word — Faith." 

"Faith?"  Crofton  repeated,  wondering  what  his  strange 
companion  would  say  next. 

"Yes,  if  a  man  believed  absolutely  that  all  was  well 
with  the  universe,  and  reflected  for  a  moment  on  its 
grandeur,  he  could  not  be  unhappy  about  anything.  The 
unhappiness  of  intellectual  persons — and  they  are  the 
most  unhappy  persons  in  the  world — comes  from  doubt. 
But,  after  all,  in  a  way,  you  are  lucky  to  be  as  you  are." 

"Lucky?    Why  do  you  say  that?"  Crofton  asked. 

"Because  it  proves  that  you  have  a  rare  quality,  and 
that  is  the  capacity  for  suffering.  It  proves,  too,  that 
you  are  on  your  way  out." 

"On  my  way  out?"  Crofton  wondered  at  the  soothing 
281 


THE    INNER   LAW 

spell  that  lay  over  him— at  the  subtle  comfort  he  was 
finding  in  the  companionship  of  this  startling  youth. 

"Oh  yes,  you  are  on  the  way  out.  I  can  see  it  in  your 
face  and  eyes — I  can  almost — now  I  am  tempted  to  say 
one  of  the  things  that  people  always  laugh  at,  and  yet 
which  I  believe  and  which  some  great  philosophers  be 
lieve,  according  to  their  writings,  and  that  is,  that — " 
Here  the  speaker  paused,  looked  silently  at  the  ground 
for  several  minutes,  and  flushed.  "What's  the  use?  I 
can't  put  it  in  words.  I  am  always  tempted  to  try  to 
express  such  things,  only  to  find  my  tongue  tied  in  the 
effort.  The  very  greatest  things  are  those  which  one  can 
not  transmit  to  another,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  It  haunts 
me  at  this  instant — haunts  me  like — like  a  dream  that  is 
full  of  meaning,  but  I  can't  express  it.  I  can't — I  can't." 

"I  wish  you  would  try,"  Crofton  gently  urged.  "You 
see,  you  mentioned  it  as  some  impression  you  got  from 
my  own  looks." 

"I  wish  I  could  make  myself  clear" — the  youth  was 
still  modestly  flushing — "especially  since  you  are  in 
terested,  and  so  few  are  in  such  things.  Whitman  touches 
upon  the  idea,  and  Maeterlinck  goes  more  deeply  into  it. 
I  have  felt  it  often — often,  and  it  has  given  me  the  great 
est  happiness.  Well,  it  is  like  this:  I  have  been  talking 
to  persons — average  persons — and  in  my  work  (I  am  a 
cabinet-maker,  a  wood-carver)  I  meet  all  classes  of  people 
from  the  lowest  to  the  highest.  I  say  I've  been  talking 
to  persons — it  might  be  an  ex-convict,  a  thief,  a  close- 
fisted  business  man,  a  daredevil  sailor  with  half  a  dozen 
wives  in  as  many  ports,  a  girl  prostitute,  when  in  mo 
mentary  flashes  I  have  seemed  actually  to  see,  not  only 
feel  and  sense,  but  see  with  the  eyes  of  my  subconscious 
self  their  perfect  souls  shining  pleadingly  through  their 
bodies  like  a  wonderful  light  that  is  not  a  light." 

"And  do  you  feel  that  way — about  me?"  Crofton  asked, 
breathlessly,  almost  in  reverential  awe. 

283 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"Yes;  not  just  at  this  instant,  for  it  always  seems  to 
go  when  I  try  to  fix  it,  or  analyze  it,  and  I  can't  make  it 
come  again.  It  is  a  strange,  wonderful  thing,  but  to  a 
person  who  has  not  had  the  experience  it  is  an  idiotic  idea. 
I  have  an  imagination  which  I  have  indulged  since  I  was 
a  child,  and  I  like  to  fancy  things  that  no  other  human 
being  ever  thought  of.  It  seems  to  me  that  everything, 
Df  a  high  order,  at  least,  that  is  imagined  may  be  a  reality 
to  the  one  who  conceives  it.  I  have  written  hundreds  of 
things — sketches,  poems,  stories — and  stacked  them  up  in 
my  room.  I  may  try  to  publish  the  best  of  them  some  day, 
but  I  am  not  ready  yet.  I  want  to  be  older  and  have 
more  experience.  I  want  to  travel — see  the  world  and 
live.  I've  been  tied  down  all  my  life,  and  my  longing  to 
know  more  is  almost  unbearable." 

"Have  you  been  to  college?"  Crofton  asked. 

"I,  to  college?  That's  a  joke,"  the  youth  laughed.  "I 
have  never  had  the  chance.  I've  had  to  work  hard -all 
my  life.  I  went  to  the  public  school  a  little  while.  My 
mother  taught  me  almost  all  I  knew  till  I  began  to  read 
for  myself.  My  father — well,  I  have  never  seen  him  in 
my  life,  and  may  never  do  so.  I  sometimes  hope  that  I 
never  shall.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  him.  My  mother 
had  to  work  hard  to  support  me  and  my  grandmother, 
and  I  started  to  work  as  soon  as  I  was  big  enough.  I  am 
having  a  two  months'  vacation  this  summer.  That  is  why 
I  am  here  now.  The  shop  I  am  working  at  has  shut 
down  for  the  season.  I  dread  going  back  in  the  fall. 
This" — he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  river  and  the  cliffs 
— "is  heaven.  I  wish  it  could  last  for  ever.  Well,  I  must 
go  down  to  my  tent.  If  you  feel  hungry  and  will  come 
with  me  I'll  cook  something  for  you,  and  make  some 
good  coffee." 

"Thank  you,"  Crofton  answered,  "I  am  going  back  to 
the  city  now,  but  I  am  coming  over  again." 

"To-morrow?  Shall  you  be  over  then?"  the  youth 

283 


THE   INNER  LAW 

asked,  eagerly.  "For  if  you  are  coming  I'll  give  you  a 
good  lunch.  I've  ordered  a  big  beefsteak  to  be  delivered 
in  the  morning.  Some  fellows  were  to  be  with  me  from 
the  other  side,  and  they  sent  word  that  they  would  not 
be  over.  We  have  no  ice  here,  and  meat  will  spoil  soon. 
I  wish  you  would  come  help  me  eat  it." 

"I  can't  come  quite  so  soon,  though  it  is  kind  of  you 
to  want  me,"  Crofton  answered.  "I'll  be  over  again  in  a 
few  days,  and  I'll  be  sure  to  look  you  up.  Whose  tent 
shall  I  ask  for?" 

"Just  ask  for  'Socrates,'"  the  youth  laughed.  "A 
witty  Irishman  dubbed  me  that  in  the  shop  a  few  years 
ago,  and  it  has  stuck  to  me  ever  since.  My  name  is 
Allen — Joseph  Allen;  but  everybody,  even  my  boss,  now 
calls  me  'Socrates.'  You  see,  they  make  sport  of  me  for 
reading  so  much.  You'd  laugh  to  hear  the  staggering 
questions  they  put  to  me.  Well,  good-by.  I'll  expect 
you  soon." 

"I'll  be  sure  to  come,"  Crofton  answered. 

He  sat  watching  the  boy  descend  the  steep  incline, 
jumping  as  nimbly  as  a  fawn  from  rock  to  rock,  and 
darting  like  a  wild  thing  through  the  vines  and  bushes  till 
he  was  out  of  sight.  Crofton  heard  his  merry  whistle 
down  near  the  tents  on  the  water's  edge,  and  wondered 
over  the  new  interest  which  had  so  quickly  risen  in  his 
life.  For  the  first  time  in  years  he  felt  that  he  had  found 
a  friend  whom  he  could  trust  and  whom  he  could  unsel 
fishly  care  for.  He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  felt  the 
bottle  of  morphine,  and  shuddered.  He  had  actually 
been  on  the  verge  of  self-destruction.  He  must  have 
been  mad,  he  told  himself.  What  would  his  new  acquaint 
ance  have  thought  of  that?  With  the  heel  of  his  shoe  he 
dug  a  hole  in  the  dark,  moist  soil,  shook  the  tablets  into 
it,  and  in  shame  over  his  past  weakness  he  pounded  the 
earth  over  them.  Then  he  hurled  the  bottle  against  a 
boulder  and  smashed  it. 


CHAPTER  III 

A)  he  walked  back  to  the  boat-landing,  along  the  rugged 
path,  Crofton  was  conscious  of  a  certain  buoyancy  of 
mood  and  body  that  was  new  and  delightful.  The  air 
Socrates  had  whistled  was  ringing  in  his  ears  like  a  sooth 
ing  lullaby  to  the  discordance  which  had  so  long  mas 
tered  him.  If  a  mere  boy  like  that  who  had  to  work  for 
his  living  could  have  such  a  sustaining  and  uplifting  faith, 
why  couldn't  he  have  it? 

"Socrates,  my  new  friend,"  he  said,  aloud,  "you  shall 
not  escape  me.  You  are  my  panacea.  I'll  dog  your 
steps,  my  boy.  I'll  drink  at  your  fount  of  wisdom  till 
I  am  drunken  with  the  truth  and  find  peace — 'the  peace 
which  passeth  understanding/" 

Under  his  new  experience  he  hardly  knew  how  the 
remainder  of  the  day  was  passed.  He  walked  in  River 
side  Park  like  a  dreaming  somnambulist  till  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening;  then  he  went  to  his  room,  disrobed,  and, 
the  night  being  warm,  he  threw  himself  down  on  his  bed 
before  an  open  window.  How  could  he  account  for  the 
compelling  and  yet  elusive  charm  of  that  chance  acquaint 
ance?  He  gave  up  trying  to  do  so.  He  knew,  only,  that 
the  boy's  rich  personality  and  evident  genius  had  nestled 
into  every  recess  of  his  tired  consciousness. 

When  he  waked  the  next  morning  his  first  thought 
was  of  Socrates.  He  looked  from  his  window  into  the 
street.  An  ice-wagon  stood  on  the  opposite  side,  the 
driver  was  sawing  a  huge  block  of  ice  into  small  pieces 
and  taking  them  to  the  basement  doors  with  massive 

385 


THE    INNER    LAW 

tongs.  Why,  a  laborer  like  that  could  be  happy  with  the 
faith  of  Socrates — a  man  on  the  gallows  would  be  in  bliss 
with  it  to  hold  to. 

Then  Crofton  began  to  wonder  how  long  it  would  be 
before  he  could  meet  the  youth  again  without  appearing 
to  be  too  eager.  Why  had  he  not  accepted  the  invitation 
for  that  very  day  ?  The  boy  had  extended  it  sincerely ; 
he  had  really  wanted  him  to  come.  Without  knowing  who 
or  what  he  was,  Socrates  had  shown  a  sincere  desire  for 
his  company.  Then  perhaps  the  attraction  was  mutual. 

Crofton  spent  the  greater  part  of  that  day  in  the  Public 
Library.  He  pulled  down  book  after  book  in  the  vast 
reference-room,  but  scarcely  read  a  dozen  pages.  How 
flat  and  uninspired  the  written  words  seemed  contrasted 
to  that  unique  talk  on  the  side  of  the  cliff ! 

When  he  waked  the  next  morning  and  saw  that  the 
day  was  fine  he  decided  to  go  at  once  across  the  river. 

"Why  delay?  Why  delay?"  he  said.  "I  want  to 
see  him.  I  must  see  him!" 

Accordingly,  he  ate  his  breakfast  in  a  cheerful,  even 
joyous  mood,  and  by  ten  o'clock  had  reached  the  New 
Jersey  shore.  He  betook  himself  at  once  to  the  path 
leading  to  the  encampment.  The  day  was  glorious.  A 
faint,  bluish  haze  hovered  over  Columbia  College,  Grant's 
Tomb,  the  lofty  apartment-houses  and  mansions  farther 
northward  on  Riverside  Drive,  and  over  Fort  Washington 
Park. 

After  a  few  minutes'  walk  the  long  line  of  tents  was 
reached.  All  were  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  many 
of  them  showed  great  care  and  pride  in  their  keeping. 
Before  the  doors  little  fires  of  driftwood  were  smolder 
ing  in  small  ovens  of  stone  covered  with  iron  gratings. 
Crofton  paused  at  a  fire  where  a  brawny  young  man  with 
an  abnormally  red  face,  and  wearing  a  ragged  bathing-suit, 
was  boiling  some  vegetable  soup  in  a  pot. 

"Good  morning,"  Crofton  greeted  him.  "I  am  look- 

286 


THE    INNER   LAW 

ing  for  the  tent  of  Joseph  Allen,  a  young  man.  Is  it  near 
here?" 

"Don't  know  any  guy  by  that  name,"  the  man  an 
swered,  "and  I've  been  here  some  time.  Maybe  you  are 
on  the  wrong  track;  there  is  a  gang  of  young  blokes  with 
a  lot  of  canoes  and  plenty  of  booze  in  a  big  tent  below 
the  landing.  I  don't  know  that  they  own  up  to  any  of 
their  nasme.  The  police  on  this  side  have  threatened 
to  lock  them  up  several  times." 

"No,  Allen's  tent  is  somewhere  near  here,  I  am  sure," 
Crofton  answered.  "I  met  him  up  there  on  the  rocks 
the  other  day.  I  think  his  friends  call  him  *  Socrates.'" 

"Oh,  Socrates!"  the  other  laughed.  "Say,  Skipper,  did 
you  hear  what  the  guy  said?"  turning  toward  his  tent. 

"I  heard  him,"  a  voice  answered,  and  the  smoke- 
begrimed  face  of  another  young  man,  who  was  lying 
on  a  canvas  cot,  was  exposed  by  the  sudden  widening  of 
the  tent's  entrance.  "Call  Soc  by  a  name  like  that  and 
he  wouldn't  look  around." 

"You  bet  we  all  know  that  guy,"  the  first  speaker 
smiled.  "  He's  everybody's  friend.  There  are  thirty-odd 
tents  in  this  row  alone,  and  twenty  of  them  came  here  on 
account  of  that  lad.  His  tent  is  further  up  the  line. 
You  can't  miss  it.  It  is  the  only  one  with  a  wood  floor 
to  it.  Soc  built  it  out  of  planks  he  picked  up  on  the 
water.  He  knows  how  to  use  a  saw  and  hammer.  Walk 
straight  ahead.  You  can't  miss  it." 

Crofton  went  on  up  the  line.  Men  and  women,  boys, 
girls,  and  babies  in  hammocks  and  boxes  were  in  and 
about  the  tents.  Presently  he  descried  a  neat  white  tent 
on  a  raised  floor.  It  was  open,  but  no  one  was  in  or 
about  it.  On  the  water's  edge  near  by  a  barefooted 
young  man  with  an  Irish  type  of  face,  in  a  soiled  under 
shirt  and  brown  overalls  rolled  up  to  his  knees,  was 
painting  an  inverted  canoe  which  rested  on  two  stones. 
Crofton  inquired  for  Socrates. 

287 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"He's  out  on  the  float,"  the  boy  answered,  with  a  touch 
of  the  Irish  brogue.  "He's  in  the  swimming-match  the 
boys  got  up  for  to-day.  They  are  going  to  dive  off  in  a 
minute.  Look,  they  are  lining  up  now.  They  will  start 
as  soon  as  the  gun  is  fired." 

Crofton  saw  a  float  three  or  four  hundred  yards  out, 
on  the  edge  of  which  a  dozen  young  men  stood  in  a  straight 
line,  looking  down-stream.  He  thought  he  recognized  the 
tall,  slender  form  of  his  new  friend. 

"What  is  the  course?"  he  asked  the  boy  beside  him. 

"See  the  launch  anchored  this  side  of  the  landing?" 
was  the  reply  from  a  big,  facile  mouth  into  which  the 
boy  had  thrust  the  handle  of  his  brush.  "They  have  to 
go  down  there,  pass  around  it,  and  swim  back.  The  first 
man  to  touch  the  float  wins." 

"What  sort  of  swimmer  is  Socrates?"  Crofton  asked. 

"Fine — a  regular  fish!"  the  paint-brush  mumbled;  "but 
Soc  don't  feel  so  certain  to-day.  You  see,  two  regular 
champs  from  the  City  College  came  over  and  entered 
at  the  last  minute.  Soc  is  the  best  unprofesh  swimmer 
on  the  shore.  He's  got  a  dandy  stroke.  Shoots  along  with 
his  head  underwater  like  a  torpedo-boat,  and  for  a  slim 
guy  his  wind  is  tiptop,  but  he  is  nervous  to-day." 

There  was  some  delay;  the  line  broke  up  and  a  group 
formed  as  if  some  discussion  were  taking  place.  All  along 
the  shore  Crofton  saw  the  inmates  of  the  tents  emerge 
and  stand  watching,  and  there  was  much  impatient 
shouting  and  many  jocular  suggestions 

"Say,  want  to  row  out  with  me?"  the  boy  asked.  "I 
have  got  a  boat  handy.  We  could  get  close  to  'em  and 
follow  'em  along." 

"Yes,  if  you  don't  mind,"  Crofton  replied. 

"Well,  come  jump  in!"  The  boy  was  already  drawing 
a  narrow  white  boat  over  the  sand  to  the  water,  and  the 
next  moment  it  was  afloat  on  the  rising  tide.  Crofton 
took  a  seat  in  the  stern,  and  the  boy,  who  had  waded 

288 


THE    INNER   LAW 

into  the  shallow  water,  sprang  in,  grasped  the  oars,  and 
began  to  pull  for  the  float.  The  argument  among  the 
contestants  was  evidently  prolonged,  and  the  boat  was 
quite  near  the  float  before  the  swimmers  were  ordered  to 
form  another  line.  And  when  they  were  so  ordered 
Crofton  saw  Socrates  stand  erect  on  the  edge  of  the  float. 
As  he  did  so  Socrates  caught  sight  of  the  boat  and  its 
occupants,  and  with  evident  pleasure  smiled  and  waved 
his  hand. 

"Soc,  I've  got  a  friend  o'  yours,"  the  boy  cried  out. 
"He  was  lookin'  for  you." 

"I  see  you  have,  Jimmy.  Thanks,  old  boy.  I'll  come 
ashore  soon." 

"Hey,  Soc,  you  are  goin'  to  win  this  race,  remember!" 
Jimmy  shouted  back  for  other  ears  than  his  friend's.  "You 
will  leave  them  fat,  bloated  life-preservers  like  empty 
beer-kegs  behind  you.  They  can't  swim  outside  of  a  pool 
under  a  college  roof.  Hold  your  wind,  old  boy,  and  don't 
make  us  ashamed  of  you." 

"All  right  Jimmy!"  Socrates  laughed.  "  I  '11  do  my  best." 

"Hey,  Jimmy,"  one  of  the  college  men  retaliated, 
"keep  your  boat  close  to  your  friend.  You  may  have 
to  pick  him  up  before  we  get  through  with  him." 

Jimmy  grunted  loudly  in  contempt,  but  made  no 
further  answer.  The  line  of  swimmers  stood  straight 
on  the  edge  of  the  float.  Every  man  had  his  hands 
clasped  above  his  head.  Crofton  was  strangely  stirred 
by  the  scene,  and  the  form  of  his  new  acquaintance  was 
a  poem  in  manly  athletic  flesh. 

"Ready!"  the  leader  cried,  pointing  his  revolver  up 
ward.  "  I'll  count  three  and  fire.  Ready  now.  One,  two, 
three!" 

The  revolver  was  fired.  The  line  of  men,  curving  down 
ward,  cut  the  water's  surface  and  went  out  of  sight. 
Presently  they  appeared,  spouting  and  churning  the  water 
like  sporting  seals,  and  yet  all  were  moving  forward. 

19  289 


THE   INNER   LAW 

The  sunlight  glaring  on  the  water  temporarily  blinded 
Crofton,  and  he  lost  sight  of  Socrates. 

" I  don't  see  him,"  he  said  to  Jimmy,  anxiously. 

"I  do;  he's  all  right!"  Jimmy  panted,  as  he  threw  him 
self  backward  and  jerked  the  boat  along.  "He's  all  right 
— second  so  far.  Gee!  look  at  that  stroke!  He  is  getting 
there,  I  tell  you !  He's  on  his  mettle  this  morning.  The 
honor  of  the  camp  is  in  his  hands,  and  he  knows  it.  Go 
it,  Soc!  You've  just  got  one  to  beat!  Spit  on  the  fat 
son-of-a-gun  and  drown  him!" 

"Go  it,  Soc!  Go  it,  Soc!"  The  cries  came  from  the 
men,  women,  boys,  and  girls  on  the  shore.  And  Crofton 
heard  himself  shouting  like  a  madman  and  waving  his 
hat  and  handkerchief.  "Go  it,  Soc!  Bravo!"  he  cried. 
And  he  had  time,  too,  strange  to  say,  to  marvel  over  his 
own  experience,  which  somehow  seemed  the  rarest  of  his 
life.  He  found  himself  almost  chilled  by  a  fear  that  an 
accident  might  happen  to  his  friend.  Socrates  might 
break  a  blood-vessel  under  such  great  strain,  and  sink. 

On  the  swimmers  went  like  a  triangular  school  of  fish, 
two  still  in  the  lead.  They  were  now  going  round  the 
anchored  launch.  Now  they  were  heading  back  for  the 
float. 

"Damn  'im,  the  fat  guy  has  gained  on  'im!"  Jimmy 
swore,  under  his  breath,  as  he  madly  cut  and  "feathered" 
the  water  with  the  oars.  "It  is  too  long  a  dash  for  Soc 
rates.  Take  breath,  you  damn  fool!"  he  called  out  to 
his  friend.  "  That  bloak  is  all  in !  Be  deliberate !  Plenty 
of  time  before  you.  There  you  are — there!  God  bless 
you !  That's  the  lick !  You  swiped  a  full  yard  from  him ! 
He  is  swallowing  water.  He's  done  for.  God  bless  you, 
Soc,  you  may  fry  my  ears  for  your  dinner!" 

There  were  now  only  two  contestants;  all  the  others 
were  swimming  more  or  less  leisurely  in  the  rear,  and 
those  two  were  battling  side  by  side  with  apparently 
equal  chances.  The  shouting  and  screaming  came  in  a 

290 


THE    INNER   LAW 

rolling  wave  of  sound  from  the  shore,  where  several  were 
watching  with  field  and  opera  glasses.  Jimmy  was  silent 
now  in  sheer  anxiety,  keeping  the  boat  alongside  the  two 
swimmers.  Crofton  caught  a  view  of  Socrates'  face,  as 
it  swiftly  turned  to  and  fro  with  each  stroke.  It  was 
tense  and  pale;  his  fine  lips  were  pressed  tightly  together. 
In  a  flash  their  eyes  met,  and  the  swimmer  smiled. 

"You  are  bound  to  win!"  Crofton  shouted,  his  heart  in 
his  mouth.  " Don't  give  up — don't!" 

The  float  was  now  only  thirty  yards  distant.  He  was 
not  sure,  but  it  struck  Crofton  that  his  words  had  had  a 
powerful  effect  on  Socrates.  He  seemed  electrified.  One 
mighty  stroke  pushed  him  a  foot  ahead  of  his  rival,  an 
other  backward  thrust  through  the  foaming  water  and  he 
was  still  further  ahead.  Crofton  heard  the  college  man 
swearing,  saw  conscious  defeat  stamped  on  the  dripping 
face,  and  then,  as  the  slim  swimmer  shot  ahead  like  an 
eel,  he  gave  it  up,  and  turned  on  his  back  to  float  and 
rest.  The  hand  of  the  leader  reached  down  and  drew 
Socrates  out  of  the  water.  The  hand  holding  the  re 
volver  went  round  the  strong,  brown  neck.  Jimmy  was 
lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  kicking  the  middle  seat 
with  his  heels  and  actually  shedding  tears. 

"Darling  boy!  Angel  one!  King  of  the  deep,  deep 
sea!"  he  sobbed,  as  he  sat  erect.  "The  man  that  can 
beat  you,  my  honey,  has  a  steam  propeller  at  the  base  of 
his  spine.  Say,  some  of  you  Latin  and  Greek  and  trigonom 
etry  chumps,  tie  your  dead  ox  to  my  line  and  I'll  tow 
'im  ashore!" 

Socrates  was  now  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  float.  The 
swimmers  were  gradually  coming  in,  shaking  hands  with 
him,  or  patting  him  affectionately  on  the  back. 

The  leader  stood  forward  to  make  an  announcement. 
He  had  made  a  megaphone  of  a  newspaper,  and,  placing 
it  to  his  lips,  he  called  out:  "The  winner  is  Soc —  Damn 
it,  what's  your  real  name,  anyway?" 

291 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Joe  Allen!"  Jimmy  called  out.  "The  guy  with  the 
electric  fins — the  shooting  submarine  ramrod.  When  he 
is  in  a  match  he  goes  through  a  bunch  o'  prize  swimmers 
like  a  toad  in  a  puddle  full  of  oysters." 

"The  winner  is  Joe  Allen!"  the  improvised  megaphone 
shouted;  and  the  tented  shore  sent  out  vociferous  ap 
plause. 

Jimmy  had  shoved  his  boat  close  to  Allen.  "Come, 
my  hearty,  let  us  take  you  ashore.  Here  is  your  friend. 
I'll  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  and  cook  you  a  snack." 

"All  right,  Jimmy,"  Socrates  accepted.  "I'm  hungry 
as  a  bear.  Haven't  had  a  bite  to-day."  He  smiled  as 
he  got  into  the  boat  and  shook  hands  with  Crofton. 

"You  did  wonderful  work,"  Crofton  said. 

"I  didn't  think  I  had  a  chance  to  win,"  the  youth  re 
plied;  "that  is,  not  till  the  last  minute.  I'm  queer  about 
some  things,  and  I'll  be  frank  and  tell  you  that  in  a  way 
you  did  it." 

"I?  Why,  surely  you  are  jesting!"  Crofton  stammered 
in  suppressed  delight. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  Allen  answered.  "  It  always  takes  some 
thing  unusual  to  spur  me  on  to  my  very  best,  and  when  I 
saw  you  in  the  boat  with  Jimmy — well,  I  did  not  want  to 
fail  before  you.  The  thought  of  it  somehow  stung  me,  and 
I  tried  extra  hard.  I'd  seen  that  college  man  swim  in  a 
race  at  a  regatta  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  a  month 
ago,  in  which  he  took  the  first  prize.  And  when  he  en 
tered  here  to-day  I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  me.  But 
when  I  saw  you,  and  heard  you  calling  out  to  me  as  if 
you  were  really  interested,  why,  I  determined  to  win  or 
die  trying." 

"I  was  interested,"  Crofton  admitted,  shaken  by  a 
sentiment  which  he  could  not  fathom,  "and  I  cannot 
explain  how  glad  I  am  that  you  won." 

The  water,  the  sky,  the  balmy  air,  the  towering  Pali 
sades  seeme4  to  smile  benignly  on  the  lonely  world- 


THE   INNER   LAW 

wanderer  that  day.  The  careful  courtesy  with  which 
both  Jimmy  and  Socrates  treated  him  was  a  thing  hitherto 
unwritten  in  his  experience,  as  they  insisted  on  his  staying 
in  the  boat  while  they  sprang  into  the  shallow  water  and 
all  but  lifted  it  and  him  ashore.  He  leaned  back  in  a  camp- 
chair  before  Socrates'  tent,  while  the  campers  all  along 
the  line  pressed  around  the  swimmer,  congratulating  him 
with  triumphant  expressions  of  delight.  Jimmy  was  busy 
at  the  fireplace  making  tea  and  frying  eggs  and  bacon, 
and  constantly  joining  in  the  talk  with  a  wit  that  kept 
the  group  in  constant  roar  of  laughter. 

"How  do  you  like  your  eggs  cooked?"  he  asked  Crof- 
ton,  approaching  with  a  greasy  spoon  in  his  hand.  "I 
can  do  them  any  way.  I  worked  in  a  Bowery  restaurant 
once." 

"Oh,  I  am  going  back  to  the  city,  thank  you,"  Crofton 
replied. 

"Not  before  you  break  bread  with  us,  you  won't," 
Jimmy  said,  firmly.  "Soc  told  me  just  now  to  make  you 
stay — not  to  take  a  refusal.  His  word's  law  on  this 
beach,  I'm  here  to  state." 

"Well,  I'll  have  mine  just  as  you  are  frying  them," 
Crofton  gave  in.  "I'm  hungry  for  the  first  time  in  a 
month." 


CHAPTER  IV 

AiTER  that  day  Crofton  was  a  constant  visitor  at  the 
camp.  When  the  weather  was  too  inclement  for 
such  an  outing,  and  he  was  forced  to  pass  the  day  in  the 
city,  he  found  himself  at  a  loss  as  to  what  to  do.  Reading 
no  longer  interested  him.  He  was  rejoicing  in  a  mar 
velous  new  experience  which  soothed  him  more  than  any 
thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  him.  He  felt  that  Soc 
rates  and  his  associates  genuinely  liked  him.  They 
scarcely  knew  his  name.  They  evidently  thought  he  was 
a  man  of  very  limited  means,  or  one  out  of  regular  em 
ployment,  and  he  did  not  care  to  remove  the  impression. 
Another  thing  that  surprised  him  was  that  he  liked  every 
one  of  them — sincerely  and  genuinely  liked  them,  sym 
pathized  with  them,  listened  eagerly  to  their  personal 
accounts  of  their  affairs.  A  man  might  be  a  plumber,  a 
stone-mason,  a  janitor  out  of  work,  and  yet  this  past  asso 
ciate  of  lords  and  ladies  listened  to  the  petty  details  of 
their  calling  more  eagerly  than  he  had  listened  to  the  chat 
of  great  European  writers.  He  kept  telling  himself,  and 
exultantly,  too,  that  this  was  the  real  thing  which  had 
fallen  upon  him  in  his  despair — the  thing  Count  Tolstoy 
had  tried  to  drag  into  his  conventionally  elegant  and  re 
bellious  home;  the  thing  Whitman  had  found  in  the  com 
panionship  of  stage-drivers,  barkeepers,  and  human  wharf- 
rats.  It  was  glorious — glorious!  he  told  himself.  He 
had  once  believed  that  peace  of  mind  could  not  possibly 
be  found  by  a  man  of  his  peculiar  temperament;  he  now 
realized  that  it  was  quite  a  simple  matter.  All  that  a 

294 


THE    INNER    LAW 

despairing  man  had  to  do  was  to  stop  valuing  himself 
and  think  only  of  the  good  of  others.  He  must  lose  his 
life  to  gain  it. 

And  yet  there  were  secret,  invisible  forces  to  contend 
against.  Now  and  then  they  would  sweep  down  on  him 
like  keen  winds  of  adverse  design. 

"What  a  fool  you  are!"  an  actual  voice  seemed  to  say. 
"Putting  yourself  down  below  your  natural  social  plane 
at  the  suggestion  of  such  dreaming  fanatics  as  your 
idiotic  Jacob  Boehme,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  and  others. 
You  have  ample  wealth,  opportunity,  the  entree  to  the 
best,  and  are  throwing  them  away  that  you  may  be  the 
boon  companion  of  butchers,  cobblers,  sunken-browed 
truck-drivers,  and  the  lowest  of  the  low." 

And  the  voice  of  this  tempter  depressed  him  at  times, 
especially  when  he  was  alone  in  the  city,  and  the  sole 
cure  for  the  mood  was  a  visit  to  the  camp  across  the  river. 
When  he  had  spent  a  day  there,  the  return  to  his  stifling, 
unornamented  room  in  the  sun-baked  street  was  by  sheer 
contrast  all  but  unbearable.  The  money-getting  grind 
of  the  people  on  all  sides  seemed  actually  abnormal. 
From  the  lowest  to  the  highest  it  was  a  mad,  blind  rush 
for  things  that  were  unnecessary  to  any  one's  actual 
well-being.  Men  did  both  day  and  night  work,  wrecking 
their  nervous  systems,  merely  that  they  might  live  in  the 
darkened  rear  of  apartment-houses  having  liveried  porters 
and  situated  in  a  so-called  fashionable  section. 

He  and  Socrates  took  long  walks  through  the  country 
together,  eating  their  simple  meals  at  the  roadside  like 
hardened  tramps.  Once  they  spent  the  night  out,  sleep 
ing  on  the  ground  on  beds  of  fallen  leaves.  It  was  glori 
ous  that  night,  for  the  moon  was  shining  brightly  and  the 
Hudson  was  spread  out  beneath  them  like  a  strip  of 
burnished  silver.  As  they  lay  there  side  by  side,  Socrates 
became  more  confidential  than  he  ever  had  been  before. 

"Oh,  I've  not  always  been  contented  and  cheerful," 
295 


THE   INNER   LAW 

he  said,  with  a  reminiscent  sigh.  "I  have  read  that 
great  crises  usually  come  into  the  lives  of  thinking  persons 
when  they  are  in  or  past  middle  age,  but  my  real  crisis 
came  when  I  was  only  fourteen.  Oh,  it  almost  killed  me! 
I  actually  tried  to  take  my  life.  What  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"That  was  sad— sad!"  Crofton  seemed  to  feel  the 
very  chill  of  the  earth  creep  through  him,  so  great  was 
his  sympathy  for  the  boy  whose  voice  was  now  quavering 
so  pathetically  at  his  side. 

"Yes,  yes,  it  was  awful.  I  never  have  been  able  to 
speak  to  any  one  of  the — the  thing  that  drove  me  to  it, 
and  I  may  not  go  so  far  to-night.  Don't  you  think  one 
may  have  a  trouble  which  is  too  profound  and  sacred  to 
mention?" 

"Yes,  I  presume  so,"  Crofton  answered,  aimlessly. 

"I  feel  that  way  about  this,  with  most  people,  but  not 
with  you,"  Socrates  went  on.  "In  fact,  somehow — I 
can't  explain  it — but  somehow  I  want  to  tell  you.  It  all 
came  in  a  certain  discovery  I  made,  or  reasoned  out  till 
it  was  a  fact  of  my  being,  and  in  one  moment  I  became 
just  the  opposite  of  what  I  had  been  up  to  that  time — 
a  care-free,  joyous  boy  who  believed  he  was  going  to  con 
quer  the  world.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  look  back  on  that 
period  eight  years  ago,  poor  as  we  were,  I  had  the  pride 
of  an  emperor.  I  know  now  that  it  was  only  my  imagina 
tion  at  work.  I  used  to  walk  the  streets  with  my  head  high, 
thinking  how  low  the  common  laboring  people  were  by 
contrast  to  me  and  mine.  I  was  proud  of  my  mother. 
She  was  then  and  is  now  the  most  beautiful  and  noble 
creature  in  the  world.  I  think  it  was  my  grandmother, 
rather  than  my  mother,  who  put  the  silly  ideas  of  superi 
ority  into  my  young  brain.  She  was  an  unlettered  wom 
an,  yet  I  used  to  hear  her  sighing  and  telling  my  mother, 
who  had  to  work  hard,  that  the  blood  of  kings  flowed  in 
our  veins,  and  that  we  had  never  been  fairly  treated, 

296 


THE   INNER   LAW 

I  tried,  you  see,  to  offset  our  poverty  with  the  thought  of 
our  superior  birth.  Hell  itself  seemed  leading  me,  a  mere 
boy,  into  a  deadly  trap  of  human  vanity."  The  voice  of 
the  speaker  died  away.  Socrates  seemed  to  be  hesitating 
over  what  he  might  or  might  not  care  to  tell. 

"I  am  sure  what  you  are  saying  is  painful,"  Crofton 
mildly  protested;  "perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  us  to 
talk  of  something  else?'1 

"I  don't  know  why  I  want  to  tell  you  at  least  a  part 
of  it,"  the  boy  returned,  sitting  up  in  the  moonlight  and 
locking  his  sinewy  arms  about  his  knees;  but  I  love  your 
sympathy.  I  simply  love  it.  I  have  never  met  a  man  who 
appeals  to  me  so  deeply  as  you  do.  I  seem  to  have  known 
you  for  years  and  years  and  years.  When  you  stay  in 
the  city  and  do  not  come  I  miss  you  in  a  way  that  is 
actual  pain.  Do  you  think  I  am  silly  for  feeling  this  way 
and  speaking  so  frankly?" 

"No,  no;  oh  no!"  Crofton  felt  a  lump  filling  his 
throat.  He  wanted  to  tell  the  boy  how  he  himself  prized 
their  companionship,  but  could  not  do  so.  He  shrank 
from  formulating  into  spoken  words  the  sentiment  which 
had  captured  him  body  and  soul,  and  now  held  him  in  a 
clutch  of  actual  bliss. 

"Well,  I  can't  help  feeling  as  I  do,"  Socrates  laughed, 
impulsively.  "The  other  day  I  had  a. thought  that  fairly 
transported  me.  You  remember  you  spoke  of  not  work 
ing  now,  being  out  of  employment,  and  the  thought  came 
to  me  that  the  most  delightful  thing  imaginable  would 
be  for  me  to  be  able  to  earn  money  for  you  in  your  old 
age." 

"Oh,  absurd,  absurd!"  Crofton  stammered.  He  was 
tempted  here  to  make  a  confession  as  to  the  part  he  was 
playing,  but  something  seemed  to  check  the  impulse.  He 
was  half  afraid  that  the  true  charm  of  the  unique  relation 
ship  would  vanish  at  such  an  announcement.  Of  course 
he  would  let  the  boy  know  later,  but  not  yet, 

297 


THE    INNER    LAW 

"Well,  I  feel  that  way,"  Socrates  said,  "and  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  it.  You  see,  I  have  never  known  my  father, 
and  a  person  with  a  highly  developed  imagination  reaches 
out  passionately  for  the  things  which  are  denied  him,  and 
so  all  through  my  childhood  I  used  to  ask  questions  con 
cerning  him.  Neither  my  mother  nor  grandmother  would 
gratify  my  curiosity,  and  as  I  grew  older  and  began  to 
piece  things  together  I  became  conscious  of  a  family  mys 
tery  into  which  I  was  not  admitted.  Then,  young  as  I 
was,  I  shrewdly,  and  in  secret,  determined  to  solve  it. 
The  first  thing  I  noted  was  that  neither  of  them  ever  said 
anything  in  my  father's  favor,  and  that  troubled  me. 
My  mother  was  everything  that  a  woman  could  be  that 
was  good  and  self-sacrificing,  and  I  wanted  him  to  be  the 
same." 

"So  your  mother  was  religious,  then?"  Crofton  said. 
^"No  doubt  it  was  her  early  teaching  which  made  you 
so  phenomenally  reverent  and  full  of  faith?" 

"It  was  one  of  the  things  which  belonged  to  the  mys 
tery  concerning  me,  at  any  rate,"  Socrates  returned,  with 
another  sigh.  "My  father's  ill  treatment  and  desertion 
of  my  mother  before  my  birth  made  her  so  desperate  and 
miserable  that  she  gave  her  whole  attention  and  heart 
to  me.  Even  before  my  birth,  I  understand  now,  she 
prayed  constantly  that  I  might  not  inherit  my  father's 
characteristics.  And  from  the  moment  I  was  old  enough 
to  talk  she  began  to  train  me,  I  sometimes  think,  as  no 
living  mother  ever  trained  a  child.  I  can  remember  when 
I  was  only  about  five  that  I  told  a  lie,  and  how  she  cried 
over  me,  prayed  aloud  at  my  bedside,  and  pleaded  with 
me  never  to  do  it  again.  It  was  like  that  all  through  my 
boyhood.  I  was  ashamed  to  do  wrong  even  in  thought, 
for  I  actually  worshiped  her  and  looked  upon  her  as  a 
suffering  saint.  She  told  me  that  my  father  was  dead, 
and  she  still  thinks  I  believe  it.  My  grandmother  joined 
her  in  this,  and  I  was  forced  back  into  my  secret  wonder- 

208 


THE    INNER   LAW 

ing  as  to  what  it  was  all  about.  One  day,  when  I  was  ill, 
I  overheard  my  mother  and  grandmother  talking  in  pri 
vate,  and  then  I  knew  the  whole  truth.  I  didn't  let  them 
know  I  had  heard.  You  can  easily  guess  what  it  was.  I 
can't  speak  of  it,  even  to  you.  But  you  can  guess.  You 
have  only  to  think  of  the  one  thing  which  could  stab  the 
very  soul  of  a  child  abnormally  sensitive  as  to  his  parent 
age.  It  brought  me  down  to  the  very  dregs  of  despair. 
I  became  a  sullen"  young  fiend.  I  cursed  the  God  my 
mother  had  taught  me  to  worship.  I  laughed  at  the  idea 
of  a  religion  of  love — at  the  idea  of  a  God  who  could  bring 
beings  into  a  heartless  world  to  suffer  as  my  helpless  mother 
and  I  were  suffering  through  no  fault  of  our  own.  It  was 
then  that  I  lost  all  hope  and  determined  to  end  my  life. 
At  one  time  I  thought  of  killing  her,  too,  but  gave  up  the 
idea.  I  couldn't  bear  to  give  her  pain." 

"And  you  a  mere  child!"  Crofton  cried,  aghast. 

"I  seemed  to  be  as  old  as  Time,"  the  youth  declared, 
bitterly.  "My  soul  was  a  wrinkled,  gray,  decrepit  thing, 
snarling  at  the  breath  my  body  drew.  Day  after  day  I 
thought  of  the  different  ways  to  die,  finding  myself  con 
stantly  checked  by  the  thought  that  the  knowledge  of 
my  suicide  would  add  to  my  patient  mother's  burden. 
So  I  began  to  plan  an  end  to  myself  that  would  seem 
accidental.  We  had  lived  in  several  cities,  where  my 
mother's  work  took  her,  but  at  this  time  we  happened  to 
be  in  New  York.  My  mother  and  I  had  gone  down  to 
spend  Sunday  at  Far  Rockaway.  I  concluded  that  I  would 
drown  myself  in  the  ocean.  I  was  not  then  a  good 
swimmer,  and  I  decided  to  go  out  a  little  way  and  sink 
myself,  thus  making  it  appear  that  I  had  been  attacked 
by  cramps.  I  left  my  mother  reading  on  the  beach,  went 
into  a  bath-house  and  put  on  my  bathing-suit.  At  the 
moment  I  was  so  nearly  crazed  by  my  approaching  ordeal 
that  I  was  not  very  sorry  for  her.  I  remember  I  kept 
saying  that  a  boy  without  a  legal  name  had  no  right  to 

299 


THE   INNER  LAW 

live  among  millions  of  other  boys  who  had  not  only  names, 
but  well-to-do  fathers.  I  argued,  too,  that  when  I  was 
dead  my  mother  would  not  have  to  work  so  hard  to  pro 
vide  for  me,  and  she  would  not  have  me  to  remind  her  of 
her  early  misfortune — the  scab  upon  her  past  would  be 
removed. 

'"Be  careful,*  I  heard  her  say,  as  I  kissed  her,  smiled, 
and  started  for  the  surf.  Her  sweet,  sad  look  of  pride,  as 
her  eyes  followed  me,  went  to  my  heart,  and  I  choked  down 
a  sob  of  pity  both  for  her  and  me  as  I  plunged  into  the  cool, 
rolling  surf  and  began  to  swim  from  the  shore.  I  went 
pretty  far  out,  and  felt  the  strong  undertow  dragging  me 
further.  From  the  crest  of  a  billow  I  saw  my  mother 
drop  her  book,  rise  in  excitement,  run  up  and  down  the 
beach,  calling  for  help  and  wildly  pointing  in  my  direction. 
But  the  guards  were  not  on  duty  at  the  spot  I'd  chosen, 
and  few  men  who  were  able  to  swim  were  near.  I  tried 
to  sink  myself,  but  while  I  went  under  I  always  came  up 
again,  and  found  myself  automatically  struggling  to  keep 
myself  afloat.  In  one  of  my  rises  to  the  surface,  I  saw  my 
mother  kneeling  on  the  sand  of  the  beach  and  knew  she 
was  praying.  Then  something  happened  to  me  that  has 
happened  to  many  others  whom  I've  read  about.  No 
one  on  earth  could  convince  me  that  it  was  not  some  sort 
of  psychic  reality.  I  heard  a  voice  call  out  far  more 
clearly,  more  distinctly  than  I  am  speaking  now.  It  said: 

"  'Be  a  man,  my  boy!  Save  yourself!  Bear  your  bur 
den  for  your  mother's  sake  and  your  own  immortal  soul!' " 

"Wonderful!"  Crofton  exclaimed.     "And  you—?" 

"I  was  completely  changed  in  an  instant,"  Socrates 
went  on,  a  flare  of  enthusiasm  in  his  eyes.  "The  sunlight 
dancing  on  the  waves  seemed  filled  with  rare  promise. 
Then  I  prayed — I  prayed  with  every  slow  stroke  I  made  to 
save  myself.  It  was  an  awful  fight.  From  the  top  of 
every  billow  that  raised  me  I  saw  my  mother  still  on  her 
knees,  her  hands  held  up  to  the  sky.  A  man  was  running 

300 


THE    INNER   LAW 

for  a  boat.  He  sprang  into  it.  He  was  not  a  good  oars 
man,  but  he  pulled  toward  me  slowly  and  awkwardly, 
while  a  crowd  gathered  on  the  beach  and  screamed  en 
couragement  to  both  of  us.  He  finally  reached  me  and 
drew  me  out  of  the  water.  I  was  so  weak  that  I  fainted, 
but  I  came  to  by  the  time  we  reached  the  shore,  where  I 
was  received  into  my  mother's  arms." 

"Did  she  know — did  she  ever  suspect?"  Crofton  asked, 
breathlessly. 

1 '  Never.  I  kept  my  secret  and  have  always  let  her  think 
she  is  keeping  hers.  I  was  changed  from  that  moment. 
The  experience  was  my  turning-point.  Young  as  I  was,  it 
led  me  to  the  reading  of  philosophy,  and  I  finally  came  to 
see  that  all  suffering  is  for  our  good  if  only  we  look  deeply 
enough  into  the  meaning  of  life.  I  can  see  now  that  my 
trouble  has  broadened  me,  and  that  my  mother's  has 
made  her  the  gentlest,  most  wonderful  woman  on  earth. 
Oh,  she  is — she  is!  I  am  not  saying  it  because  she  is  all 
I  have;  it  is  because  she  is  what  she  is  and  has  been. 
She  is  now  in  California,  but  she  will  be  home  soon.  She 
works  very  hard.  She  travels  a  great  deal,  and  we  can 
not  live  together;  but  we  meet  often  when  she  is  in  New 
York.  I  go  to  see  her  at  her  boarding-house  and  take 
her  out  to  dinner  and  places  of  amusement  like  a  sweet 
heart.  She  is  young-looking — people  take  her  for  my 
sister.  Now  I  have  told  you  more  than  I  have  ever 
told  any  one.  You  have  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  wanted 
you  to  know  all  about  me — absolutely  all." 

"I  am  glad  you  trusted  me  to  that  extent,"  the  other 
returned. 


CHAPTER  V 

CROFTON  had  thrown  himself  back  on  his  bed  of  leaves 
and  was  looking  at  the  moonlit  sky.  He  had  never 
felt  more  depressed  in  his  life.  The  most  regrettable  ex 
periences  of  his  past  were  crawling  through  his  memory 
like  magnified  vermin,  leaving  their  slimy  tracks  upon 
his  consciousness.  In  what  way  was  he  better  than  the 
fiend  who  was  the  author  of  this  helpless  boy's  agony? 
Suddenly  he  sat  up  and  glanced  at  the  poetic  profile  in 
the  moonlight  beside  him. 

"Was — was  your  father  young  when — when  he  left — 
deserted  your  mother  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes;  I  caught  that  much  in  the  talk  I  overheard," 
Socrates  answered.  "He  was  only  a  few  years  older  than 
she,  and  she  was  only  seventeen  or  eighteen.  He  was 
proud,  and  rich,  and  ashamed  to  do  his  duty  before  the 
world,  and  she  was  very  poor  and  at  that  time  uneducated. 
She  taught  herself  afterward.  She  often  said  it  was  for 
my  sake  that  she  studied  and  worked  so  hard  night  and 
day." 

"And  you  think  it  is  likely  that  he  is  still  alive?"  Crof- 
ton  asked. 

"Yes,  I  am  pretty  sure  of  it,  and  I  think  my  mother's 
sole  object  now  is  to  keep  us  from  meeting.  She  wants 
me  to  think  that  I  am  the  legitimate  son  of  a  man  who 
could  not  live  to  do  his  duty  by  me  and  her.  Oh,  I  don't 
want  to  see  him!  I  sometimes  shudder  over  the  thought 
of  meeting  him  even  in  eternity.  I  revel  in  the  thought 
of  Paradise  with  her,  but  the  idea  of  his  being  there  mars 

302 


THE    INNER   LAW 

the  fancy,  almost  wipes  it  out  of  my  hopes.  Oh  no!  I 
pray  to  God  to  keep  us  apart.  I  am  afraid  of  meeting  him 
face  to  face.  I  am  at  peace  now,  and  sometimes  with  the 
eyes  of  a  mystic  I  actually  see  my  way  on,  on  into  the 
'Kght  which  never  lay  on  land  or  sea,'  and  that  man, 
absent  though  he  is,  gives  me  my  only  doubt,  my  only 
sense  of  insecurity." 

"Your  only  doubt!"  Crofton  repeated,  tentatively,  as 
he  bent  down  almost  in  awe  over  the  twitching  poetic  face. 

"Yes,  the  thought  of  him  fills  me  with  a  great,  uncon 
querable  fear  in  regard  to  my  real  self."  Socrates  sat 
up  again.  His  jaw  was  set  firmly;  his  long  fingers  were 
clenched.  "It  may  be  that  I  am  only  having  a  respite 
at  the  hands  of  a  sinister  fate.  I  sometimes  fear  that  I 
may  be  destined  to  further  trouble.  I  may  meet  that 
man,  you  see,  and  have  to  kill  him.  I've  done  it  in  my 
thoughts,  in  awful  nightmares.  I  may  have  to  do  it  in 
fact.  God  may  keep  us  apart — Satan  may  throw  us  to 
gether.  If  we  met  I  would  not  be  able  to  check! 'my  rage." 
The  voice  of  the  boy  rose,  cracked,  and  quivered.  "  I  have 
felt  my  fingers  at  his  throat  a  hundred  times.  He  was 
not  my  father  in  any  holy  sense.  He  was  hell's  agent  in 
the  production  of  the  worst  part  of  me.  See — see?  I'm 
crazy — the  thought  of  his  deed  sets  my  brain  on  fire." 

* '  Don't,  don't !  Stop,  stop !' '  Crofton  implored.  ' '  These 
memories  are  doing  you  no  good.  You  are  not  yourself. 
You  surprise  me.  I  did  not  dream  that  it  was  in  you." 

' '  Oh,  how  can  I  keep  from  being  bitter  ?"  The  boy  cov 
ered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  Crofton  saw  his  fine 
chest  rise  under  a  welling  sob.  "Why  couldn't  I  have  a 
father  whom  I  could  love  and  who  would  love  me — I,  who 
so  passionately  desire  it?  You  see  how  I  love  to  be  with 
you,  how  I  care  for  your  company  more  than  I  do  for 
the  company  of  fellows  of  my  own  age.  It  is  because 
I  sometimes  fancy — oh,  you'll  say  I'm  a  silly,  sentimental 
fool!  but  I  play  at  the  game  of  son-and-father  when  I 

303 


THE   INNER  LAW 

am  with  you.  I  hang  upon  your  words;  I  try  to  please 
you — I  almost  swoon  with  joy  when  you  say  that  my 
ideas  actually  help  you.  Oh,  I  know  it  is  a  dream,  an 
empty,  hysterical  figment  born  from  the  sheer  poverty 
of  my  yearning  for  the  impossible,  but  you — you  are  what 
I  would  have  created  for  a  poor  boy's  father  had  I  been 
God  and  God  been  me." 

"Don't,  don't,  don't!"  Crofton  groaned.  "You  don't 
know  how  you  are  tearing  my  heart  out.  I  love  you, 
my  poor  boy — I  don't  know  why,  but  I  love  you,  and  I 
am  unworthy  of  what  you  say.  I  can't  hide  under  a  false 
cloak  and  look  you  in  the  face.  I  want  you  to  think  well 
of  me,  but  I  cannot  gain  your  respect  by  a  deliberate  lie. 
I  am  bad — as  bad  as  your  father  ever  was.  I — " 

"Oh  no,  you  are  not !"  Socrates  firmly  shook  his  head. 
"You  couldn't  act  as  he  did.  It  isn't  in  you.  Your 
face,  your  voice,  your  pleading,  suffering  eyes,  your  con 
stant  kindness  to  me  whom  you  have  known  such  a  short 
time,  prove  what  you  are.  What  you  have  said  in  so 
justly  criticizing  my  stories  and  poems,  and  the  gentle 
way  you  have  spoken  for  fear  of  discouraging  me,  have 
won  all  the  heart  I  have.  And  it  is  not  only  I  who  like 
you — everybody  down  at  the  camp  feels  the  same  way 
toward  you.  They  have  said  so  time  and  again.  When 
you  fail  to  come  any  day  they  speak  of  it  with  regret. 
At  the  lower  end  of  the  line  they  watch  for  you  to  get 
off  the  boat,  and,  when  you  are  coming,  they  shout  the 
news  from  tent  to  tent  up  to  us.  They  are  even  now 
planning  a  camp-fire  dinner  in  your  honor.  They  are  all 
contributing  toward  it.  Oh  no,  no,  if  my  father  had  been 
like  you  I  would  ask  no  more." 

"But  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  that  I  am  not  what  you 
think  I  am.  Your  friends  may  like  me,  but  it  is  because 
they  don't  know  me  as  I  am.  I  like  them  all  because 
they  are  better  than  I  am.  I  can't  hide  my  appreciation 
of  them;  they  perhaps  feel  it  and  respond  with  unselfish 

304 


THE   INNER   LAW 

friendship;  but  it  is  because  they  think  I  am  the  opposite 
of  what  I  actually  am." 

"What  you  are  saying  is  absurd,"  Socrates  declared, 
with  a  firm,  wan  smile.  "I  don't  want  to  hear  more  of 
it.  I  want  to  be  like  you.  I  am  proud  of  the  fact  that 
I  am  tall  and  slender  like  you  are,  and  have  the  same 
broad  shoulders.  The  other  day  while  we  were  bathing 
I  noticed  that  your  instep  was  high  like  mine,  your  ankles 
small,  and  that  your  finger-nails  are  shaped  like  mine, 
and  was  proud  to  find  it  so.  I  have  never  before  cared 
how  I  looked,  but  now  I  would  like  to  look  like  you — I'd 
like  to  be  like  you." 

After  that  silence  fell  between  them.  The  lapping  of 
the  water  on  the  rocky  shore,  the  shrill  piping  of  crickets 
in  the  wood  behind  them  were  the  only  sounds  of  the  still 
night.  They  were  both  fatigued.  Crofton  saw  that  his 
companion  had  closed  his  eyes.  The  face  upturned  to  the 
moon  was  beautiful  in  all  its  lines.  The  boy  was  soon 
asleep,  but  the  man  lay  awake,  his  brain  charged  with  the 
force  of  a  hundred  self -accusations  that  besieged  him 
like  enemies  rising  from  the  dark.  His  uncle's  first  de 
spairing  warning;  then  his  sin;  next  his  uncle's  discovery 
and  the  choice  laid  before  him;  then  that  deliberate  sale 
of  his  soul,  followed  by  those  blighting  years  in  Europe 
and  his  brother's  awful  death — these  things  and  many 
others  tormented  him.  More  painful  than  all  was  the 
faith  in  him  held  by  the  young  sleeper  at  his  side.  Hours 
passed.  He  was  still  awake.  Presently  Socrates  stirred, 
drew  his  feet  up,  rolled  over,  rose,  and  stood  blankly 
staring  through  the  moonlight  at  the  river.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  remained  so,  then  he  bent  down  and  looked  into 
Crofton's  face  without  a  word  or  expression  of  conscious 
ness  on  his  own.  Then  he  slowly  turned  into  the  path 
they  had  traversed  and  began  to  walk  along  it. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Crofton  asked,  anxiously. 

At  this  Socrates  paused,  turned  half  around,  and  began 
20  305 


THE    INNER    LAW 

to  mutter :  * '  I  was — was —  I  want — want —  Why,  what 
is  it?  Where  am — ami?  Oh,  I'm  sorry!  I  was  walking 
in  my  sleep.  I've  waked  you,  and  you  were  tired." 

"I  was  not  asleep,"  Crofton  said,  taking  his  arm. 
"Come,  lie  down  again.  When  I  was  young  I  used  to  be 
that  way  myself,  but  outgrew  it  at  about  your  age.  You 
will  outgrow  it,  too,  I'm  sure." 

"Perhaps  so;  it  only  happens  once  in  a  great  while 
now,"  Socrates  said.  "Oh,  I  had  such  a  beautiful  dream! 
I  dreamt  that  I  had  been  dreaming  all  the  horrible  things 
I  told  you  to-night — that  they  were  dreams  and  not 
realities.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  sick  of  the  fever, 
as  I  once  was  when  a  child,  and  you  were  bending  over  me 
telling  me  that  you  yourself  were  my  father.  Oh,  oh! 
why  am  I  tormented  this  way?  Is  God  good?  Is  He — 
is  He?" 

"I  am  sorry  you  feel  as  you  do."  Crofton  answered  the 
best  he  could.  He  remembered  his  own  exaggerated 
pride  of  birth  when  he  was  young,  and  his  heart  was 
torn  with  sympathy  for  the  boy  who  was  suffering  so 
keenly. 

Socrates  was  lying  on  his  bed  of  leaves  now.  The  sad 
ness  of  his  placid  face  seemed  laid  on  by  the  relentless 
moonbeams.  After  a  while  he  was  asleep.  The  expression 
changed,  a  smile  lifted  the  corners  of  the  tender  mouth. 
His  companion  heard  him  muttering : 

"Mother!     Mother!" 

Crofton  returned  to  the  city  early  the  next  morning, 
and  when  he  found  himself  again  in  the  busy  streets  a 
brooding  sense  of  having  np  particular  thing  to  do  op 
pressed  him  to  the  point  of  actual  pain.  In  such  moods 
he  had  often  sought  the  slums  of  the  great  town,  where 
he  had  come  into  contact  with  the  poorest  of  the  poor, 
so  now  he  took  the  Elevated  train  to  Mulberry  Bend  Park 
on  the  Lower  East  Side.  His  clothing  was  soiled  from 

306 


THE    INNER   LAW 

his  long  walk  the  day  before;  his  straw  hat  had  been 
stained  by  a  fall  into  a  stream  while  it  was  coated  with 
dust;  his  collar  was  wrinkled,  his  tie  carelessly  arranged, 
and  his  shoes  needed  polishing;  but  the  thought  that  he 
was  thus  less  conspicuous  in  such  sordid  surroundings  as 
he  was  now  in  appealed  to  him.  In  fact,  all  that  day,  as 
he  wandered  about  among  the  Italian  push-cart  men,  the 
Jewish  venders  of  old  clothing,  or  sat  chatting  with  some 
drunkard  or  clerk  out  of  employment  in  the  little  park, 
he  was,  in  his  imagination,  an  actual  outcast  himself  with 
scarcely  a  penny  in  his  pocket.  It  afforded  him  a  strange, 
mystic  sense  of  peace  and  even  enjoyment  which  a  year 
previous  would  have  seemed  wholly  absurd  to  him. 
Wayfarers,  tramps,  men  with  gay,  drink-flushed  faces, 
men  with  daredevil  attitudes  who  scowled  and  swore  at 
the  policemen  that  pushed  them  along,  greeted  him  with 
a  cordial  smile  of  fellowship.  He  never  refused  the  pennies 
they  pleaded  for  and  which  they  may  have  thought  he 
needed  for  himself.  In  truth,  he  frequently  gave  money 
he  knew  was  to  be  spent  for  rum.  An  odd  thing  in  this 
connection  happened  to  him  that  day.  A  shabbily  dressed 
young  man  approached  him  as  he  stood  near  a  bubbling 
fountain  of  drinking-water. 

"Say,  boss,"  the  man  said,  "you  look  like  a  good  chap. 
Give  a  fellow  a  dime  for  a  drink.  I  am  dying  for  it. 
You  may  not  be  a  drinking  man,  and  don't  know  what  the 
feeling  is  like,  but  if  you  are  you  will  understand." 

Crofton  gave  him  the  money.  "Thanks,  boss,  thanks," 
the  man  said,  gratefully,  and  left.  Crofton  watched  him 
cross  the  street.  There  was  a  bar-room  on  the  opposite 
corner,  and  he  expected  to  see  him  enter  it.  He  did  not 
do  so,  however,  but  passed  on  to  the  shop  of  a  baker  two 
doors  below  and  entered.  Wondering  over  this,  Crofton 
crossed  the  street  and  looked  through  the  plate-glass 
window  of  the  shop,  seeing  the  man  buying  two  loaves  of 
bread  from  a  girl  behind  the  counter.  Hardly  knowing 

307 


THE    INNER    LAW 

what  to  think  of  the  occurrence,  Crofton  was  turning 
away  when  the  man  looked  up  suddenly,  and,  recognizing 
him,  flushed  red  and  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  floor.  Taking 
his  parcel  under  his  arm,  the  man  hurried  out,  still  red  in 
the  face.  Crofton  had  started  on,  but  the  man  followed 
him  with  quick,  dogged  strides  and  soon  overtook  him. 

"You  think  I'm  a  blooming  liar,  I  guess,"  he  began, 
sheepishly.  "Well,  I  did  lie  to  you,  boss,  but  I  didn't 
mean  no  harm.  I'm  sorry,  though,  for  you  may  need  that 
dime  yourself.  Say,  I  asked  you  for  money  for  a  drink, 
and  I  had  a  reason  for  it — reason  enough  for  me,  anyway. 
My  wife  and  kids  are  hungry,  boss.  I  was  fired  from  my 
job  as  janitor  two  weeks  ago,  and  can't  get  another.  Well, 
why  did  I  lie?  Because  it  is  like  this:  do  you  know,  boss, 
it's  God's  truth  what  I'm  telling  you.  I  ain't  lying  now. 
I  have  asked  for  bread-money  dozens  of  times  and  got 
turned  down  in  every  case,  but  when  I  ask  for  the  price 
of  a  drink  the  average  sporting  man  gives  it  to  me  with 
out  a  word.  I  learned  that  men  are  like  that,  boss,  when 
I  was  a  rummy  myself  before  the  kids  was  born.  Most 
men  know  what  it  is  to  want  a  drink  after  a  soaking 
spree,  but  they  don't  know  the  feeling  of  being  without 
bread  for  sick  women  and  little  children." 

Crofton  took  the  man's  arm,  and  they  moved  along 
the  sidewalk  together.  He  was  buoyed  up  by  that  strange 
spiritual  element  which  had  so  powerfully  influenced  him 
of  late.  He  had  so  much  money  in  his  purse  that  he  was 
ashamed  to  draw  it  out  before  the  man.  However,  he 
remembered  that  he  had  put  a  ten-dollar  bill  into  a  blank 
envelope  for  a  certain  purpose,  and  that  it  was  in  the 
breast  pocket  of  his  coat.  He  got  it  out  from  among 
the  letters  and  memoranda  about  it,  and,  without  opening 
it,  gave  it  to  the  man. 

"  Take  it  home  with  you,"  he  said.   "  It  may  help  you." 

The  man  stared.  He  shifted  the  parcel  under  his  arm 
awkwardly  and  hesitated.  "Is  it  a  tract?"  he  asked. 

308 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"Oh,  I'm  done  with  them,  boss.  I've  read  them  till  my 
head  spins.  They  don't  help  the  likes  o'  me." 

"It  is  not  a  tract;  it  is  a  little  money,"  Crofton  an 
swered. 

The  man's  grimy  fingers  quivered  with  excitement  as 
they  opened  the  envelope;  they  contracted  like  mechanical 
prongs  as  they  fumbled  the  green  bill.  The  bread  slid 
from  beneath  his  arm  and  fell  to  the  pavement.  The 
man's  form  swayed  as  he  stooped  to  take  it  up,  still 
clutching  the  money. 

"Good  God !"  he  cried,  with  an  incredulous  stare.  "You 
can't  mean  it,  boss." 

"Yes,  I  mean  it  for  you  and  your  family." 

"Honest?    You  do— you  do?" 

"Yes,  and  here  is  my  name  and  address,"  Crofton  went 
on.  "If  you  can't  get  work  come  and  see  me,  will  you? 
Promise  me." 

The  man  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  were  filling  with 
the  transcendent  light  Crofton  had  begun  to  see,  under 
rare  conditions,  in  certain  human  faces. 

"Say,  boss,  you  are  the  real  thing — you  are — you  are! 
You  make  me  feel — feel — "  He  was  beginning  to  cry. 

Crofton  took  his  arm  again  and  held  it  tenderly  as  he 
led  him  along.  He  looked  away,  for  he  heard  the  guttural 
sounds  his  companion  was  making  as  he  crushed  down 
his  sobs.  The  man's  arm  was  shaking,  and  its  muscles 
were  contracting  convulsively.  On  the  corner  they 
stopped.  The  man  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  the  real  thing,  boss,"  he  repeated.  "I  didn't 
know  it  could  be  found  anywhere  in  this  great  hole  of 
hell." 

Crofton  pressed  the  hard  fingers  gently.  "Promise  me 
to  come  to  see  me — or,  better  still,  let  me  come  to  see  you 
and  your  children.  I  am  fond  of  children.  I  have  none 
of  my  own,  and  my  life  is  lonely.  Give  me  your  address." 

The  man  pointed  down  the  street  to  a  disreputable- 
309 


THE    INNER   LAW 

looking  tenement-house.  "There,  top  floor  above  the 
junk-shop,"  he  said.  "We  was  to  be  ousted  to-morrow 
for  the  rent,  but  this  will  fix  that,"  he  added,  with  a 
chuckle.  "You  may  come  if  you  like,  boss,  but  it  is  a 
terrible  place.  My  wife  will  be  ashamed  to  have  you  see 
us  like  we  are,  for  she  is  used  to  a  better  deal  than  she  is 
getting;  but  you  can  come  if  you  feel  like  it.  I  hope  God 
will  bless  you  for  this." 

"I  will  come  soon,"  Crofton  promised,  and  he  intended 
not  only  to  go,  but  to  help  the  man  and  his  family  in  some 
substantial  way,  as  he  intended  from  that  day  on  to  help 
all  human  sufferers.  What  a  life  lay  before  him — what 
a  glorious  life!  He  was  forgetting  himself — actually  for 
getting  himself,  and  living  in  the  lives  and  emotions  of 
others.  He  was  discovering  that  infinite  peace  could 
only  be  had  for  one's  self  by  helping  the  needy. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ABOUT  three  o'clock  Crofton  returned  to  his  room. 
He  had  just  started  to  take  a  bath  and  change  his 
soiled  clothes  when  the  only  maid-servant  in  the  house,  a 
rather  slovenly  girl,  brought  up  Farnham's  card. 

"Farnham!"  he  exclaimed,  inwardly  and  aghast,  for 
he  was  in  no  mood  to  meet  this  particular  man. 

" Where  is  he?"  Crofton  inquired. 

"He  is  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  hall," 
the  girl  replied.  "I  invited  him  in  the  parlor,  but  he 
wouldn't  go — said  he  thought  you'd  let  him  run  up  here, 
as  he  is  an  old  friend." 

"Up  here?  Well,  tell  him  to  come  up,"  Crofton  said, 
recklessly,  almost  angrily,  and  the  maid  departed  to  do 
his  bidding. 

Crofton  stood  holding  the  door  of  his  room  open.  Pres 
ently  he  saw  the  portly  form  of  Farnham  almost  filling 
the  narrow  stairway  as  he  puffed  up  the  two  flights,  slid 
ing  a  fat  hand  holding  a  cane  on  the  walnut  balustrade. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  he  panted,  as  he  reached  the  top 
and  saw  Crofton.  "What  in  the  name  of  the  devil  does 
this  mean?" 

1 '  I  don't  understand  you. ' '  Crofton  extended  his  hand, 
a  flush  of  inner  resentment  on  his  face. 

Farnham  clung  to  the  reluctant  fingers  with  his  gloved 
hand,  and  stared  quite  curiously  into  Crofton's  eyes. 
"Why,  your  hiding  in  a  place  like  this,  old  chap?"  Farn 
ham  was  sweeping  Crofton's  bedraggled  attire  from  top 
to  bottom  with  a  bland  stare  of  perplexity.  "I  tried  to 

3" 


THE   INNER   LAW 

find  you  three  weeks  ago  when  I  was  here,  but  failed. 
Your  bankers  acted  queer,  I  thought.  They  intimated 
that  they  knew  your  whereabouts,  but  were  bound  in 
confidence  not  to  inform  any  one,  so  I  had  to  go  back 
home  without  seeing  you." 

"I  am  sorry,"  Crofton  answered,  lamely,  even  helpless 
ly.  "Come  into  my  room." 

"Your  room!  Have  you  only  one?  My  Lord!  old 
chap,  is  this  it?"  Farnham  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  hat 
and  cane  in  hand,  his  eyes  roving  over  the  bare  white 
walls,  the  almost  rugless  floor,  the  old-fashioned  bed,  the 
small,  crude  table  in  the  center,  the  cheap  bureau  which 
matched  nothing  else  in  the  room. 

"Yes,  this  is  all  I  have  at  present,"  Crofton  faltered, 
abashed,  against  his  will.  "But  it  is  comfortable;  it  is 
good  enough;  it  is  quiet.  I  couldn't  stand  the  hotel;  it 
was  too  noisy.  You  see,  I — I  wanted  a  place  where  I  could 
be  wholly  undisturbed  and  to  myself.  Sit  down.  Let 
me  have  your  things." 

He  took  the  hat,  cane,  and  gloves  of  his  wondering 
guest  and  laid  them  on  the  bed. 

"But  why,  if  I  may  ask,  did  you  choose  exactly  this  sort 
of  a  joint?"  Farnham  stared  at  his  friend's  back,  now 
so  willingly  turned  upon  him.  "Why,  the  door-mat  has 
holes  in  it;  I  almost  jerked  the  bell-handle  out  of  its 
socket  and  waited  an  endless  length  of  time  before  that 
horrid  creature  stuck  her  frowsy  head  out  of  the  door 
under  the  stoop  and  asked  what  I  wanted.  'Do  you 
mean  the  gent  in  second  front?'  she  asked,  as  if  she  had 
never  heard  your  name  before.  Say,  Cart,  old  boy,  what 
in  the  name  of  common  sense  does  all  this  mean?" 

"Mean?"  Crofton  asked,  helplessly,  to  gain  time. 
"How  did  you  get  my  address?" 

"From  your  sister;  she  heard  I  was  coming  to  New 
York  and  asked  me  to  look  you  up.  She  said  you  had 
written  her  a  short  letter  from  this  street  and  number, 

312 


THE   INNER   LAW 

but  that  you  had  asked  her  to  reply  in  care  of  your  bank 
ers.  Frankly,  she  is  puzzled,  as  I'm  puzzled,  as  all  your 
friends  down  home  are  puzzled." 

"I  can't  see  what  you  are  puzzled  about?"  Crofton  re 
plied,  with  chilling  restraint.  "I  am  simply  living  as 
best  suits  my  own  individual  taste,  and — and  present 
ideas  of  duty.  What  do  you  mean?" 

Farnham  twirled  his  short,  fat  fingers  between  his 
pudgy  knees,  contracting  the  thick  lids  of  his  eyes,  and 
continued  to  stare  at  his  friend,  who  was  now  drawing  a 
rickety  chair  forward  and  sitting  down  in  it. 

"Why,  Carter,  there  is  such  a  change  in  you  that  I 
hardly  know  what  to  make  of  it.  Your — your  looks,  for 
instance.  You  need  a  shave.  Your  clothes  are  out  of 
style,  and  as — really,  old  chap,  they  are  as  dirty  as  a 
tramp's;  your  hands  are  as  rough  as  a  plumber's;  your 
hair  has  not  been  trimmed  for  a  month." 

"I've  been  roughing  it  across  the  river,"  Crofton  ex 
plained.  "  I  was  just  about  to  put  myself  to  rights  when 
you  came.  I  live  outdoors  a  great  deal  of  late.  I  like 
it.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  the  first  thing  I  have  ever 
genuinely  liked." 

"I  see,  I  see."  But  it  was  plain  that  Farnham  was 
still  mystified  and  wondering  where  he  should  next  put 
the  probe  he  had  come  to  use.  "The  truth  is,  the  first 
thing  which  struck  me  as  being  odd — unlike  you,  wholly 
unlike  you — was  the  fact  that  when  I  wrote  you  in  re 
gard  to  the  rise  in  your  railroad  interest  you  did  not  even 
answer  the  letter.  There  I  was  chuckling  over  our  good 
luck,  and  all  the  rest  who  had  put  money  in  my  scheme, 
and  you  did  not  care  enough  about  it  to  write  me.  Any 
sound  business  man  would  resent  that,  old  chap,  even 
from  a  man  of  artistic  temperament  such  as  you  have.  I 
confess  it  riled  me.  I'm  justly  proud  of  what  that  road 
has  done,  not  only  for  us,  but  for  our  State.  Between  you 
and  me,  I  have  been  spoken  of  as  our  next  Governor,  but 


THE   INNER   LAW 

I  shall  not  enter  the  race.  The  fact  that  a  lot  of  leading 
men  want  me  is  compliment  enough.  The  pay  would  not 
amount  to  much,  you  know,  and  it  would  .take  up  my 
time.  I  have  always  been  interested  in  you,  and  this 
damned  queer  turn  you  have  taken  is  anything  but  ra 
tional.  Then  there  is  Milicent.  She — " 

"Milicent?  What  about  her?"  Crofton  broke  in,  more 
and  more  angered  by  his  sheer  inability  to  express  him 
self  satisfactorily  to  this  densely  materialistic  friend. 

"Why,  the  poor  woman  is  upset,  to  say  the  least, " 
Farnham  said,  more  delicately  now.  "She  cannot  talk 
of  anything  but  the  way  you  have  acted  since  your  brother 
died.  She  says  you  did  not  inform  her  of  his  death  till 
he  was  buried,  and  that  during  your  short  stay  in  Atlanta 
afterward  you  scarcely  spoke  to  her,  but  moped  about  the 
house  as  if — as  if  your  mind  was  affected.  Then  she  got 
hold  of  the  information,  in  some  way,  that  you  have  pro 
vided  most  extravagantly  for  the  woman  Henry  was 
keeping  when  he  died." 

"I  have  satisfactory  reasons  for  everything  I  have 
done  in  that  case,  and  as  for  my  unhappiness  over  my 
brother's  death,  that  is  my  own  private  matter,"  Crofton 
blurted  out. 

Farnham  now  locked  his  twirling  fingers  tightly.  He 
cleared  his  throat  and  bit  the  ends  of  his  mustache, 
which  he  swept  between  his  teeth  with  a  hesitating  tongue. 
"I  see,  as  a  true  friend  to  you,  Carter,  that  I  must  be 
more  frank  with  you,"  he  said,  his  glance  resting  un 
steadily  on  the  floor.  "Carter,  I  happen  to  know  per 
sonally  that  you  have  given  considerable  sums  of  money 
to  certain  other  individuals  in  Atlanta.  I  don't  say  they 
are  not  deserving — that  is  neither  here  nor  there,  but 
Milicent  got  wind  of  it  and,  naturally,  as  your  sister — " 

"I  can't  see  why  you  are  continually  bringing  in  her 
name,"  Crofton  cried,  impatiently.  "Heaven  knows  I 
don't  owe  her  anything,  and  she  is  well  provided  for, 

3*4 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Those  faithful  old  friends  of  my  boyhood  wrote  me  that 
they  were  in  great  need,  and  I  simply  instructed  my 
agents  to  provide  for  them  in  a  substantial  way.  That  is 
all.  Do  you  realize  that  I  am  a  bachelor,  and  have  less 
and  less  use  as  the  years  go  by  for  the  fortune  which  my 
father  left  me,  and  which  is  growing  instead  of  diminish 
ing?  I  enjoyed  helping  those  people — enjoyed  it  more 
than  anything  I  ever  did.  I  have  read  their  very  grateful 
letters  over  many  times.  Say,  Farnham,  it  is  my  turn 
to  be  frank  with  you — if  I  can — if  I  can.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  can  possibly  make  my  position  clear  to — to  a 
man  like  you,  but  I  will  try.  You  know  I  am  a  student 
of  philosophy — I  have  read  everything  I  could  lay  my 
hands  on.  I  know  now  that  I  am  essentially  an  idealist, 
as  my  uncle  Tom  was.  I  have  had  a  great  awakening 
to  my  true  inner  self.  It  is  hard  to  speak  to  a  practical 
business  man  of  these  things,  for  he  simply  cannot  under 
stand  them — can't  see  them  from  the  same  point  of  view. 
Charley,  I  know  what  I  am  going  to  say  will  be  regarded 
as  sheer  foolishness;  still,  I  am  going  to  say  it.  It  is  my 
right.  I  am  going  to  say  that  after  I  was  left  that  fortune, 
and  began  trying  to  buy  only  material  pleasures  with  it, 
I  was  leading  a  life  that  was  contrary  to  the  infinitely 
high  spiritual  law  which  governs  the  universe.  I  know 
almost  as  well  as  any  of  the  ancient  seers  did  that  the 
hoarding  of  and  idly  subsisting  upon  personal  posses 
sions  is  fundamentally  wrong.  I  know  now  that  the 
humblest,  poorest  man  in  the  world — a  black-fingered 
cobbler  at  his  bench,  a  laborer  in  a  filthy  sewer — is  hap 
pier,  more  sane  than  any  rich  man  in  his  mansion  or  on  his 
yacht.  Say  what  you  will,  think  what  you  will,  this  is  the 
truth.  I  have  begun  to  demonstrate  it  in  my  own  life. 
I  know  what  I  am  talking  about." 

Farnham 's  heavy  cheeks  twitched;  he  blinked;  he 
avoided  his  friend's  eager  stare.  He  forced  a  stiff  smile 
to  his  face  and  then  wiped  it  away  with  his  glove. 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"You  are  too  deep  for  me,"  he  stammered;  "but  I'm 
afraid — the  honest  truth  is,  I'm  afraid  you  are — are,  well, 
fanatical,  to  say  the  least.  What  you  are  saying  is  this 
— if  I  may  make  a  personal  application  of  it — you  think 
I,  for  instance,  have  no  absolute  right  to  enjoy  as  I  will 
what  my  brain  has  earned.  You  speak  of  the  joy  you 
are  getting  out  of  your  new  ideas  and  habits.  Let  me  tell 
you  that  I  get  joy  and  satisfaction  out  of  mine.  I'm 
satisfied — you  bet  I  am.  I  don't  want  to  live  like  a  pig 
in  a  filthy  pen,  or  drag  my  wife  and  children  into  one. 
Why,  my  friend,  what  you  are  saying  is  an  insult — a  down 
right  insult.  I  oughtn't  to  do  as  I  am  doing — that  is  the 
sum  and  substance  of  your  crazy  argument." 

"No,  no,  I  can't  say  that  it  applies  to  you — you  don't 
understand,"  Crofton  corrected,  quickly.  "The  thing  I 
am  talking  about  seems  to  be  demanded — that's  the 
word — demanded  only  of  certain  individuals.  From  the 
very  beginning  you  have  been  a  man  who,  it  seems  to 
me,  was  created  to  be  exactly  what  you  are,  to  feel  as 
you  feel,  and  to  live  as  you  live." 

'  'And  you  are  different— is  that  it  ?"  A  sneer,  half  of  pity, 
half  of  indignation,  crept  over  Farnham's  flushed  face. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  without  appearing  egotisti 
cal,  Charley,  but  that  is  what  I  mean,"  Crofton  answered, 
candidly.  "I  think  I  was  given,  early  in  life,  a  sort  of 
mystic  comprehension  of  ultimate  spiritual  verities  which 
practical  minds  do  not  receive.  I  deliberately  turned  my 
back  upon  them,  and  have  suffered  in  consequence  ever 
since.  I  know  that  I  have  lived  wrongly — I  know  it 
because,  through  it  all,  Charley,  I  never  had  one  moment's 
peace  of  mind.  I  was  in  a  constant  turmoil,  tossed  like 
a  ball  between  matter  and  spirit.  When  I  got  back  to 
America  I  had  an  awakening.  I  met  the  wonderful  woman 
whose  life  I  wrecked,  and  saw  endless  reproach  on  her 
beautiful  face.  Later,  my  brother's  death  staggered  me, 
stunned  me.  I  saw  that  I  was  going  to  die  in  torture  as 

316 


THE    INNER   LAW 

he  did,  and  for  the  same  sort  of  offenses.  You  don't  know 
all  about  that,  and  I  won't  go  into  it,  but  the  whole  thing 
has  haunted  me  day  and  night.  If  you  had  turned  over 
millions  of  dollars  to  me  as  my  share  of  the  profits  in  our 
investment,  I  would  hardly  have  cared  to  see  the  money 
safe  in  a  bank.  That  is  why  I  don't  answer  your  business 
letters.  The  very  thought  of  wealth  only  increased  the 
terror  of  my  condition.  Do  you  think  you  could  interest 
a  man  in  the  inheritance  of  a  heap  of  gold  who  is  standing 
on  the  scaffold,  looking  at  the  black  cap  in  the  sheriff's 
hands?  I  have  been  standing  there — I  swear  I've  been 
standing  there — ever  since  Henry  died.  There  is  no  use 
in  my  trying  to  make  this  clear  to  you.  You  could  never 
dream  of  what  it  is  like  without  going  through  it  with 
exactly  my  temperament  and  exactly  my  damnable  past 
oozing  from  the  pores  of  your  soul.  History  is  full  of 
men's  names  who  grew  sick  of  material  possessions,  aims, 
and  accomplishments,  and  in  sheer  desperation  humbly 
sought  God  in  solitude  and  renunciation  of  self.  It  was 
exactly  so  with  me,  but  I  have  found  the  way  out — I 
know  it.  I  discovered,  when  I  left  off  expensive  habits, 
sought  the  companionship  of  simple  people,  learned  to 
love  them  unselfishly — I  say,  when  I  did  those  things, 
Charley,  I  began  to  live  in  the  light.  It  is  hard  for  me 
to  say  these  things,  for  I  know  you  think  I  am  a  fool." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that  I  think  that,"  Farnham  an 
swered,  awkwardly,  as  he  nervously  stroked  his  mustache. 
"But  to  be  honest  with  you — honest,  man  to  man,  if  you 
want  me  to  tell  you  just  what  I  think,  I  will  do  so." 

'Til  be  glad  to  hear  it,"  Crofton  replied,  tremblingly, 
for  he  had  spoken  with  great  force  and  energy. 

"Well,  then,  I  think  that  you  have  perhaps  inherited 
what  may  be  called  a — a  slight  mental  taint  in  your 
family.  Your  uncle  became — well,  queer,  to  say  the  least, 
at  about  your  age,  when  he  began  leading  a  lonely  life 
somewhat  like  yours  at  present.  He  became  careless  of 


THE    INNER   LAW 

his  financial  affairs,  and  the  way  he  acted  in  taking  Henry 
and  that  woman  in  with  him  at  the  last  was  a  crazy  thing 
to  do,  considering  the  conservative  and  respectable  lo 
cality  it  happened  in.  You  see,  your  own  provision  for 
the  woman — " 

"It  was  for  Henry's  sake/'  Crofton  interrupted.  "He 
was  dying  and  was  disturbed  over  the  matter.  You 
may  call  that  an  insane  act  if  you  like,  but  it  is  only  your 
opinion.  The  greatest  men  of  history  are  my  standards 
— men  like — " 

"Yes,  but  the  cool-headed  view  of  a  man  of  my  stripe 
may  be  of  more  practical  value  to  you  than  the  ideas  of 
them  all,"  Farnham  broke  in.  "Say,  Carter,  I  feel  it 
my  duty  as  a  friend,  and  a  close  business  associate  of 
yours,  to  tell  you  frankly  that,  in  my  judgment,  your 
sister  is  going  to  give  you  serious  trouble  down  at  home." 

"Serious  trouble?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  women  are  cranky,  as  a  rule,  and  where  their 
moneyed  interests  are  concerned  they  often  act  impulsively 
and  sometimes  without  reason.  Now  you  know  Atlanta 
has  plenty  of  shyster  lawyers  who  are  on  the  lookout  for 
cases,  and  if  they  choose  to  poison  the  mind  of  a  woman, 
well—" 

"I  don't  understand,"  Crofton  said,  irritably.  "I 
don't  see  what  you  are  driving  at." 

"Well,  I'll  be  plain.  The  truth  is  your  sister  has  an 
abnormal  love  for  money.  She  has  shown  it  by  the  way 
she  has  hoarded  the  income  on  her  property,  and  the 
quiet,  inexpensive  way  she  lives.  Now  it  is  my  opinion 
that  she  has  simply  gone  to  a  certain  shrewd  lawyer  and 
asked  for  legal  advice  as  to  how  she  ought  to  act  as  your 
next  of  kin." 

"Surely  you  can't  mean — "  Crofton  began,  but  al 
lowed  his  astonished  voice  to  die  away  in  silence. 

"Yes,  I  mean  that  it  looks  at  present  as  if  she  is  think 
ing  of  restraining  you  by  process  of  law  from  an  irrational 


THE    INNER   LAW 

disposition  of  your  effects.  She  has,  it  seems,  a  letter 
from  you  containing  some  of  the  odd  views  you  have  just 
expressed  to  me,  and  that,  along  with  the  ill-advised  pro 
vision  made  to  Henry's  companion,  and  sums  given  to 
others  in  Atlanta,  she  adduces  as  proof  that  you  are  of 
unsound  mind,  and  an  unsafe  guardian  of  her  prospective 
rights." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  Crofton  said,  bitterly,  and  he  flared  up 
suddenly.  "There's  proof  enough  of  what  I  was  saying 
about  the  hellish  effects  of  money.  You  see  what  it  will 
do  in  her  case?  She  is  rich;  she  is  a  crabbed,  lonely,  al 
most  friendless  old  maid,  and  yet  she  wants  to  add  to 
her  pile  of  useless  coin  at  the  expense  of  my  reputation 
for  sanity.  She  would  weld  the  chains  of  sordid  law  about 
the  spiritual  desires  I  have  toward  the  close  of  a  life  which 
has  been  of  no  use  to  humanity  or  to  God.  Well,  do  you 
think  the  courts  would  listen  to  her?" 

"  To  be  absolutely  honest  with  you,  I  think  they  might," 
Farnham  returned.  "As  long  as  you  remain  unmarried 
Milicent  has  a  certain  claim  on  you  and  the  money  left 
by  your  father.  You  see,  Carter,  the  courts  of  our 
country  are  not  governed  by  the  strange  ideas  you  have 
recently  acquired.  I  will  speak  plainly.  I  have  myself 
been  on  juries  chosen  to  settle  disputes  in  families,  and, 
frankly,  if  I  did  not  know  you  too  intimately  to  be  a 
juror  on  this  particular  case,  and  had  to  serve  under  oath, 
I  would  be  compelled  to  throw  my  vote  against  your 
policy.  It  does  not  appear  rational  to  me,  and,  as  a 
practical  man,  I  can't  help  it.  If  our  laws  were  made 
by  men  with  such  visionary  ideas  as  you  hold  the  world 
would  drop  to  pieces  in  no  time.  As  I  look  at  it,  nothing 
of  importance  has  ever  been  built  up  which  was  not 
founded  on  some  man's  effort  to  help  himself.  Every 
invention  we  have  and  enjoy — our  telephones,  wireless, 
steamships,  flying-machines,  come  from  the  desire  of  men 
to  profit  personally  by  their  ideas.  Our  own  railroad, 


THE   INNER   LAW 

which  is  helping  the  South  market  its  products,  and  doing 
good  in  many  ways,  grew  up  out  of  my  own  determination 
to  show  a  certain  bunch  of  scoffing,  tight-fisted  specu 
lators  that  I  could  make  more  money  than  they  could. 
Edison  declares  immortality  is  a  silly  dream.  By  George ! 
now  I  think  of  it,  you  wouldn't  have  the  very  money 
in  question,  which  you  say  you  are  using  to  a  good  end, 
if  your  father  had  not  looked  out  for  number  one  and  piled 
it  up  in  doing  so.  Your  sister  is  looking  out  for  number 
one,  and  she  may  tie  up  your  whole  self-sacrificing  scheme 
in  a  knot  so  tight  that  you  will  not  be  able  to  move  hand 
or  foot." 

"Perhaps  so,  perhaps  so,"  Crofton  sighed.  "I  know  I 
am  standing  by  myself  in  these  things.  I  find  few  in 
actual  life  who  think  as  I  do,  or  yearn  for  what  I  yearn  for. 
When  I  enter  a  great  library,  however,  I  find  the  works 
of  the  believers  in  the  idea  staring  at  me  from  the  shelves, 
and  take  them  down  and  caress  them.  And  masses  of 
people  are  reading  them  who  never  dream  of  following 
their  precepts.  Why  is  that — in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  why  are  they  devouring  the  works  of  men — turning 
them  into  classics  as  the  years  pass — of  men  whose  theories 
they  denounce  as  empty  dreams?  The  face  of  the  earth 
is  dotted  with  churches  founded  on  the  philosophy  of  a 
Man  who  held  that  material  possessions  are  a  curse,  and 
that  total  self-renunciation  is  the  only  firm  step  toward 
eternal  life.  On  Sundays  the  bells  ring,  and  the  people 
throng  the  streets  in  smug  attire,  going  to  worship  the  Man 
whose  best  advice  they  tread  underfoot.  Tell  you,  as  I 
have  told  you,  as  I  have  written  Milicent,  that  His  law 
is  the  only  rational  law  of  life,  and  you  reprove  me — she 
takes  me  to  court.  You  say  if  I  were  married  she  would 
be  powerless  to  interfere  with  me.  I  know  now  that  I 
shall  never  marry — that  the  only  woman  I  desire  more 
than  life  itself  is  beyond  my  reach  for  ever.  You  know 
who  I  mean.  As  for  fighting  my  sister  in  the  public  eye, 

320 


THE   INNER   LAW 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  would  make  any  defense  at  all. 
To  fight  for  that  fortune  would  be  as  bad  as  amassing  it. 
It  has  been  a  curse  to  me.  If  the  law  so  decides,  it  may 
go.  If  it  remains  in  my  hands  I'll  try  to  use  it  for  the 
good  of  others.  If  it  goes  to  her  she  can  gloat  over  it  as  a 
miser  over  his  gold,  and  when  her  time  comes  she  may 
die  as  Henry  died,  horrified  by  the  memory  of  his  life 
long  mistakes." 

"You  frighten  me,  old  man;  you  really  do,"  Farnham 
exclaimed.  "You  are  going  too  far — you  really  are. 
Your  state  of  mind  is  a  dangerous  one.  I  hate  to  say  it, 
but  you  may  hear  it  from  others — in  fact,  Milicent  is  sure 
to  allow  it  to  be  brought  forward  if  she  does  go  to  law. 
The  truth  is,  your  father's  life  ended  in  an  asylum ;  your 
uncle  died  a  miserable  recluse  from  the  world;  and  your 
brother—" 

' '  I  know  all  that . ' '  Crof ton  smiled  wistfully.  ' '  I  know 
they  might  be  regarded  as  having  unsound  minds  by  your 
world,  but  I  am  not  mad  in  any  sense.  Through  the  fre 
quent  companionship  with  one  person  scarcely  out  of  his 
teens,  the  books  I  have  read,  the  spiritual  experiences  I 
have  had,  I  know  that  I  am  wiser  than  I  used  to  be.  In 
all  ages  men  who  have  dared  to  stand  by  their  best  inner 
convictions  have  been  ridiculed  by  the  masses.  I  have 
groveled  in  the  mire,  and  fed  upon  the  scum  of  existence. 
My  pitiful  life,  such  as  it  has  been,  was  given  me  for  some 
inscrutable  purpose.  I  was  born  to  experience  exactly 
what  I  have  experienced,  and  to  come  out  of  material 
darkness  into  spiritual  light,  as  I  am  slowly  coming  out — 
slowly,  but  it  seems  surely." 

"You  can't  be  serious  when  you  say  you  would  not  con 
test  your  sister's  action,"  Farnham  returned.  "That 
surely  would  be  madness." 

"Madness  to  shrink  from  having  my  father's,  my 
brother's,  my  uncle's  miserable  lives  unrolled  before  the 
public  gaze,  now  that  they  are  dead  and  at  rest?  I'd 

21  321 


THE    INNER    LAW 

rather  give  up  ten  fortunes  such  as  the  paltry  one  in 
question.  Oh  yes,  she  may  have  it,  if  it  comes  to  that! 
At  present  my  daily  companions  consider  me  a  poor  man, 
and  their  friendship  on  that  basis  is  the  sweetest  experi 
ence  I  have  ever  known.  I  quake  with  the  fear  that  they 
may  accidentally  learn  who  I  am  and  no  longer  consider 
me  wholly  one  of  them.  Farnham,  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  actually  being  born  again.  The  time  comes  in  the 
middle  life  of  certain  persons  when  they  are  completely 
changed — the  things  they  once  cared  for  no  longer  appeal 
to  them.  They  seek  God  in  humility,  prayer,  and  self- 
immolation,  and  His  light  finally  dawns  upon  them." 

"You  are  too  deep  for  me,"  Farnham  said,  with  a  sickly, 
reluctant  smile — "too  deep  or  too  crazy,  one  or  the  other. 
I  think  we  had  better  change  the  subject.  Well  never 
agree.  Say,  my  train  leaves  at  two  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning,  and  this  evening  will  be  a  lonely  one  for  me  un 
less  we  spend  it  together.  Meet  me  at  my  "hotel.  I  have 
box  seats  for  a  good  play.  We'll  have  dinner  together, 
see  the  show,  take  in  a  cabaret  supper,  and  be  as  jolly 
as  we  used  to  be  in  Paris  and  Berlin.  Then  I'll  take  a 
taxi  for  the  station.  What  do  you  say?  It  will  do  you 
good.  You  are  killing  yourself  in  this  hole  in  the  wall, 
brooding  over  your  brother's  death  and  other  like  things.'* 

Crofton  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  finally  accepted. 

Farnham  smiled  triumphantly  and  rose  to  go.  "I'll 
make  you  more  cheerful,"  he  said,  dubiously,  slapping 
Crofton  on  the  shoulder.  "You've  got  to  pull  yourself 
out  of  this.  Your  uncle's  morbid  solitude  ruined  him , 
and  you  have  taken  on  his  tendencies.  Good-by  till  I 
see  you." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  evening  spent  with  Farnham  in  the  conventional 
world  of  fashion  was  like  a  garish  nightmare  to  the 
man  with  his  newly  acquired  vision.  He  was  wearing 
evening  dress  for  the  first  time  in  several  months,  and  the 
black  coat  and  trousers,  the  snowy  whiteness  of  the  stiff 
waistcoat,  shirt,  and  tie  struck  him  as  being  the  almost 
degrading  uniform  of  men  who  are  held  down  from  the 
actual  heights  of  life  by  sheer  trivialities.  He  wondered 
what  his  plain  friends  of  the  riverside  encampment,  the 
poor  families  he  knew  on  the  East  Side,  would  think  if 
they  saw  him  there.  No  longer  would  they  open  their 
hearts  in  brotherly  confidence,  for  they  would  know  that 
he  was  an  impostor,  a  man  who  had  entered  their  simple 
fraternity  behind  a  mask.  Farnham's  easy  chat  at  din 
ner  about  politics,  commerce,  interstate  railway  regula 
tions,  the  stock-market,  and  comments  on  the  costly 
gowns  and  jewels  of  the  women  in  the  room,  were  foreign 
matters  expressed  in  a  foreign  tongue.  Crofton  observed 
the  tired  look  of  the  bald,  middle-aged  waiter  who  served 
them,  pitied  him,  wondered  if  the  man  had  a  wife  and 
children  at  home,  and  if  they  longed  to  rise  above  the 
condition  of  servitude  of  their  wage-earner.  And  when 
Farnham  had  excused  himself  to  go  out  to  look  at  the 
"ticker,"  leaving  him  alone  at  the  table,  he  ventured  to 
ask  the  man  if  the  tips  were  good  in  that  house. 

"Not  now,  sir,"  the  waiter  replied,  with  a  sigh.  "We 
used  to  pick  up  a  good  deal,  but  the  talk  in  the  papers 
against  tipping  has  almost  stopped  it.  Not  only  that, 

323 


THE    INNER   LAW 

but  our  wages  are  lower  and  living  is  out  of  sight.  Some 
of  the  public  treat  us  like  dogs  unfit  to  eat  the  bones 
they  leave  on  their  plates.  Some  waiters  know  how  to 
make  it  pay,  but  I  am  getting  old  and  slow." 

"I  am  this  gentleman's  guest  to-night,"  Crofton  an 
swered,  with  a  furtive  look  toward  the  door.  "  I  wouldn't 
like  to  offend  him,  and  yet  I'd  like  to  give  you  something." 
He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  took  out  a  five-dollar 
bill,  folded  it,  and  slipped  it  into  the  waiter's  palm. 

"Thank  you.  I  understand,  and  God  bless  you,  sir," 
the  astonished  man  exclaimed  as  he  quickly  concealed 
the  money.  "I  can't  explain  everything,  for  your  friend 
is  coming  back,  but  I  needed  it,  sir — oh,  I  needed  it  badly 
at  home!  Do  you  know,  sir,  this  is  actually  an  answer  to 
a  prayer?  I've  been  praying  for  help  to-night,  and,  you 
see,  it  has  come — it  has  come!  God  will  bless  you,  sir — • 
He  will,  He  will — as  sure  as  His  stars  are  in  the  sky  to 
night  He  will.  I  am  going  to  ask  Him  to  bless  you — 
that  is,  if  you  don't  mind?  Some  men  I  meet  don't  be 
lieve  in  God,  but  if  you — " 

"I  believe  in  God,"  Crofton  said,  fervently,  surprised 
at  his  own  candor,  "and  I  want  your  prayers."  He  then 
did  a  thing  that -was  unknown  to  conventional  caf£  life: 
he  extended  his  hand  and  pressed  the  thin  fingers  of  the 
servant,  while  a  lump  of  emotion  filled  his  throat  with 
delicious  pain. 

"'Sh!" — the  beaming  waiter  bent  to  fill  his  tray  with 
the  dishes — -"your  friend  is  coming.  God  bless  you.  I 
shall  never  forget  this  night — never!" 

At  the  play,  in  the  box  Farnham  had  provided,  Crof 
ton  sat  all  but  unconscious  of  the  drift  of  the  drama.  He 
was  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  escape  Farnham's  talk. 
The  whole  thing,  compared  to  the  recent  nights  and  days 
spent  out  in  nature,  under  the  skies,  with  open-hearted, 
simple  men  and  women,  jarred  harshly  upon  him.  After 
th§  play  F^raharn  begged  him  to  go  with  him  to  a  cabaret 


THE   INNER   LAW 

where  there  was  a  good  stage  performance;  but  he  de 
clined,  saying  that  he  was  tired  and  was  in  the  habit  of 
going  early  to  bed.  He  no  longer  cared  what  his  friend 
would  think  of  his  mood  and  actions,  and  yearned  to  be 
alone  with  his  thoughts.  Above  all,  he  wanted  to  think 
of  the  waiter  and  the  man's  appealing  manner  and  words. 
The  evening,  after  all,  he  told  himself,  had  not  been 
thrown  away. 

"Well,  then,  111  say  good-by  here,"  Farnham  said  at 
the  door  of  the  theater.  "I'll  keep  you  posted  about  that 
unpleasant  family  matter,  and  if  I  can  help  you  in  regard 
to  it  I  shall  do  so.  I  think  I  can  influence  Milicent — I 
really  do.  She  listens  to  me,  and  I'll  give  her  some  strong 
advice.  By  George!  I'll  tell  her  you  are  going  to  get 
married — that  will  settle  it.  In  that  case  she'd  have  her 
fees  to  pay  for  nothing." 

As  he  walked  to  the  Subway  station  through  the  glaring 
white  light  of  the  theatrical  section,  Crofton  had  a  bound 
less  sense  of  relief  in  being  rid  of  the  company  of  the  man 
who  could  not  understand  him  in  the  slightest,  and  who 
was  now  all  but  a  gross  mystery  to  him. 

Indeed,  the  next  morning  he  waked  with  a  haunting 
sense  of  having  lowered  himself  the  night  before.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  have  led  that  sort  of  life  for  so 
many  years,  and  how  Farnham  could  still  rejoice  in  it. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  he  went  to  the  ferry  and 
crossed  the  river  to  the  encampment.  He  found  Soc 
rates  in  his  tent  with  a  pencil  and  a  pad,  writing  a  poem. 
The  young  man  looked  up  with  a  beaming  face  and  smiled. 

"I  want  you  to  read  it,"  he  said,  flushing  modestly. 
"I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  think  it  is  the  best  I  have  done. 
I  have  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  offer  it  to  a  maga 
zine.  I  may,  and  I  may  not." 

Crofton  sat  down  on  the  canvas  cot  beside  the  boy  and 
read  the  lines.  He  was  astonished  at  the  philosophic 
depth  and  rhythmic  beauty  of  the  poem. 

325 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"It  is  great/'  he  said.     "You  must  publish  it." 

"But  I  really  don't  know  how  to  go  about  it,"  Socrates 
said,  trying  to  conceal  his  delight. 

"I've  had  some  experience  in  such  things,  and  I'll  send 
if  for  you  if  you  will  let  me,"  Crofton  proposed. 

"Oh!  will  you?"  the  boy  exclaimed;  "and  do  you 
really  think  it  has  any  chance  at  all  of  acceptance?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  Crofton  replied.  "You  are  destined 
to  be  a  great  writer.  You  have  the  true  creative  sense 
and  deep  mystic  originality." 

Some  one  called  Socrates  from  a  boat  on  the  shore, 
and  he  ran  out,  leaving  the  poem  in  Crofton's  hands. 
Crofton  put  the  manuscript  into  his  pocket,  reclined  on 
the  cot,  and  looked  out  through  the  door  of  the  tent. 
He  heard  Socrates  and  Jimmy  singing.  The  atmosphere 
held  the  faint  blue  which  composed  the  denser  sky  above; 
the  lazy  waves  lapped  the  rocky  beach ;  the  sea-gulls  were 
curving  and  dipping  over  the  water;  the  towering  cliffs 
behind  the  tent  seemed  the  verdure-clothed  breast  of 
nature  soothing  the  living  and  growing  things  which 
crept  and  took  root  upon  it. 

"I  am  a  new  man — actually  a  new  man!"  Crofton 
chuckled.  "A  year  ago  I  would  have  been  envious  of 
this  boy's  work,  or  too  materialistic  to  appreciate  it,  but 
now  I  comprehend  his  genius  and  had  rather  see  him 
succeed  than  to  succeed  myself.  Marvelous,  mar 
velous!" 

The  loss  of  his  usual  sleep  the  night  before  had  told 
upon  him.  He  felt  drowsy,  closed  his  eyes,  and  slept  with 
half -conscious  delight  for  several  hours.  When  he  waked 
he  heard  Jimmy  and  Socrates  conversing  in  low  tones 
over  the  fire  in  front  of  the  tent. 

"He  likes  his  coffee  strong,"  he  heard  the  poet  saying. 
"Let  me  put  it  in.  I  know  exactly  how  to  measure  it. 
The  other  day  he  said  my  coffee  was  fine." 

326 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Well,  he  liked  the  'spuds'  I  roasted  in  the  sand," 
Jimmy  retorted.  "You  burn  them  every  time." 

Crofton  closed  his  eyes.  The  droning  voices  were  like 
far-off  music  to  his  ears.  "Hush!"  Socrates  said,  "I'll 
see  if  he  is  awake."  Thereupon  he  cautiously  parted  the 
tent-curtains  and  looked  in,  catching  Crof ton's  smiling 
glance. 

"Dinner  is  almost  ready,"  he  announced.  "You've 
had  a  nice  long  nap,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes.    I  was  up  later  than  usual  last  night." 

"Isn't  that  strange?"  Socrates  said,  entering  the  tent 
and  sitting  on  a  camp-stool,  his  fine  shock  of  hair  against 
the  sloping,  overhead  canvas.  "I  knew  you  were  up 
last  night — awake,  at  least." 

"How  could  you  know?"  Crofton  asked,  attracted  by 
the  naive  gravity  of  the  boy's  manner  and  tone. 

"I  felt  it,"  was  the  answer.  "I  am  that  way  with  a 
few — a  very  few — my  mother  all  my  life,  and  lately  with 
you.  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night.  I  had  been  rowing, 
swimming,  and  gathering  driftwood  all  day,  and  was 
quite  fagged  out,  still  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  kept  thinking 
of  you  and  knew — or  thought,  at  least — that  you  were 
awake." 

"I  was,  "Crofton  said. 

"But  that  wasn't  all,"  Socrates  went  on.  "I  had  the 
feeling  that  certain  things  were  happening  that  you 
didn't  like.  It  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  nervous  and 
upset — different  from  what  you  are  with  us.  I  had  that 
feeling  till  about  midnight;  then  all  at  once  it  lifted  and 
I  felt  that  whatever  it  was  that  disturbed  you  was  over 
with.  Then  I  went  to  sleep." 

"It  is  a  good  example  of  thought-transference,"  Crof 
ton  said.  "I  was  awake  and  feeling  uncomfortable 'till 
after  midnight." 

"I  always  know  when  you  are  coming  over  here," 
Socrates  went  on.  "I  knew  it  to-day.  I  told  Jimmy. 

327 


THE    INNER   LAW 

It  is  a  queer  thing — telepathy  is,  for  you  can't  experiment 
with  it.  Experimenting  always  kills  it.  That  is  why 
some  scientists  refuse  to  accept  it.  But  it  is  true,  and  in 
the  future  it  will  be  better  understood  and  actually  put 
to  use." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  right,"  Crofton  returned. 

Jimmy,  outside,  was  striking  a  goblet  with  a  fork  and 
making  a  tinkling  sound.  "There  is  no  telepathy  in 
that."  Socrates  laughed,  merrily.  "That  is  the  dinner- 
bell.  Let's  go.  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  bear." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  si  unexpected  thing  was  to  happen  to  Crofton.  He 
was  riding  one  morning  on  the  top  of  a  'bus  up 
Riverside  Drive,  when  he  noticed  a  lady  dressed  in  brown 
on  a  corner  signaling  to  the  driver  to  stop.  It  was  Lydia. 
From  his  position  on  one  of  the  front  seats  he  could  not 
see  her  again  till  she  had  ascended  the  narrow,  winding 
stair  and  was  taking  one  of  the  rear  seats.  Then  he  had 
a  full  view  of  her.  His  heart  was  in  his  mouth.  He  felt 
cold  from  head  to  foot,  and  trembled  with  excitement. 
She  was  viewing  the  river  with  evident  interest,  and  did 
not  notice  him,  although  he  sat  furtively  and  even  fear 
fully  watching  her.  She  was  even  more  beautiful  than 
when  he  had  last  seen  her.  At  One  Hundred  and  Sixteenth 
Street  she  rang  the  bell  and  stopped  the  'bus.  Still  she 
had  not  noticed  him.  He  was  tempted  to  go  back  and 
assist  her,  but  she  was  already  on  the  way  down.  Sud 
denly  he  realized  that  he  was  about  to  miss  the  only 
chance  he  might  ever  have  to  appeal  to  her  once  more, 
and  with  great  trepidation  he  followed  her  to  the  pave 
ment.  Indeed,  he  was  so  close  behind  her  that  he  could 
have  touched  her  arm.  When  the  'bus  had  left,  she 
turned,  saw  him  at  her  side,  started,  and  uttered  a  little 
cry  of  blended  surprise  and  protest. 

"Oh,  Lydia,  you  must  forgive  me!"  he  humbly  and 
huskily  pleaded.  "I  cannot  let  you  go  again  without 
seeing  you.  I  must  speak  to  you,  if  only  for  a  mo 
ment." 

It  struck  him  that  a  faint  light  of  sympathy  lay  in  her 
329 


THE    INNER    LAW 

beautiful  eyes  for  a  bare  instant;  then  he  saw  her  face 
hardening  with  displeasure. 

"What  is  it  that  you  want  to  say?"  she  asked,  biting 
her  lip  and  stabbing  the  pavement  with  her  sunshade. 
"I  have  to  cross  the  Drive  here.  I  am  going  down  into 
the  Park.  I  sometimes  go  there  to  walk." 

His  pulse  beat  quickly  under  the  thought  that  she  might 
permit  him  to  accompany  her,  and  yet  he  was  afraid  to 
propose  it,  feeling  instinctively  that  if  he  mentioned  it 
she  would  refuse.  However,  she  allowed  him  to  take  her 
arm  and  help  her  across  the  Drive,  and  that  vaguely 
encouraged  him  to  remain  at  her  side  a  moment  longer. 
Near  by  there  was  a  stone  stairway  leading  down  into 
the  Park,  and  she  permitted  him  to  descend  it  with  her. 

"You  can't  imagine  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  Lydia," 
he  faltered.  "Since  I  saw  you  in  Washington  I  have 
thought  of  little  else  than  that  meeting.  I  deserve  all 
you  said  and  more,  but  I  am  sure  you  would  pity  me  if 
you  knew  me  as  I  now  am  and  all  that  I  have  suffered." 

They  had  reached  a  shaded  walk,  and  she  paused  and 
looked  at  him  steadily  and  curiously.  He  felt  her  calm 
eyes  sweeping  his  lined  face,  clothes,  and  gray  hair. 

"I  can  see  that  you  have  suffered,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  sigh.  "  I  was  sorry  afterward  that  I  spoke  so  harsh 
ly  to  you  that  day;  but  I  was  frightened — oh,  I  was 
frightened!  I  cannot  now  make  you  understand  my 
position  without  explaining  certain  things  which  I  never 
shall  explain.  One  thing,  however,  is  sure — our  lives 
must  lie  apart — there  is  no  other  way — none  under  the 
sun." 

"God  knows  I  cannot  ask  you  to  make  a  confidant  of 
me  after  my  cowardly  conduct,"  he  faltered;  "but  you 
are  noble-hearted,  Lydia,  and  you  will  forgive.  You 
may  not  believe  it,  but  I'd  give  my  life  to  atone  for  the 
wrong  I  have  done  you." 

Again  she  was  eying  him  studiously.  "I  think  you 

330 


THE    INNER    LAW 

look  altered,"  she  observed,  "and  I  am  sorry  for  you. 
Still,  if  I  could  tell  you  all,  you  would  know  that — that 
we  must  never  be  seen  together." 

"Oh,  then  you  are — are  bound  to  some  one  else?"  he 
gulped. 

"No,  no,  not  in  the  way  you  think,"  she  thrust  in 
quickly.  "I  am  giving  my  whole  life  to  my  work." 

"I  know — I  know,  and  it  is  a  noble  calling,"  he  said, 
off  his  guard. 

"What  do  you  know  of  my  work?"  she  asked,  sus 
piciously.  "I  have  not  yet  told  you  what  I  do.  How 
could  you  know?" 

He  hesitated,  his  eyes  averted  from  her  now  quite 
anxious  stare,  the  blood  rushing  to  his  face.  "Perhaps 
I  haven't  quite  the  right  to — to  say  how  I  discovered  it," 
he  said;  "but  it  was  purely  accidental." 

A  knowing  look  came  into  her  eyes.  "Oh,  I  think  I 
know  now!  I  thought  I  was  unrecognized  that  day  by 
your  friend  Farnham,  but  he  knew  me,  after  all.  He 
was  the  only  old  acquaintance  that  I  had  run  across  for 
years  and  years.  I  tried  to  escape  his  notice,  but  I  see 
now  that  he  knew  me." 

"Yes,  he  knew  you.  He  spoke  of  that  meeting  to  me 
early  this  summer,  but  he  could  not  recall  the  name  you 
bore." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  that  he  could  not,  for  I  don't  want 
you  to  know  it,  but  I  assure  you  that  I  am  tired  of  hiding 
from  it  all." 

"But  why  do  you?"  he  faltered. 

"Why  do  I,  indeed?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  that' you,  of  all 
persons,  could  ask  such  a  question!  Well,  I  am  not  going 
to  explain.  I  have  reasons  for  my  silence,  and  they  are 
sufficient — quite  sufficient." 

There  was  a  bench  at  the  side  of  the  walk,  over  the 
back  of  which  hung  a  mass  of  green  shrubbery,  and  she 
sat  down  to  rest.  He  hesitated,  fearing  that  the  liberty 

331 


THE   INNER   LAW 

might  offend  her,  but  finally  seated  himself  on  the  end 
of  the  bench. 

"Lydia,"  he  resumed,  appealingly,  "I  was  a  thought 
less,  brainless  boy  when  I  deserted  you  so  heartlessly. 
Since  then  sorrow,  trouble,  and  a  dissatisfied  mind  have 
crushed  all  pride  out  of  me.  I  am  humiliated  as  few  men 
have  ever  been  humiliated,  and  it  is  by  the  very  hand  of 
God.  I  myself  have  reached  a  point  in  life  at  which 
I  would  forgive  the  greatest  personal  wrong  that  could 
possibly  be  done  me.  You  are  kind  and  good.  I  see  it  in 
your  sweet  face,  hear  it  in  your  voice.  I  presume  I  am  the 
only  person  in  the  world  whom  you  could  never  forgive?" 

11 1  don't  know — oh,  I  don't  know!"  she  returned, 
thoughtfully.  Then  suddenly  she  drew  herself  erect, 
tossed  her  head,  and  flared  out,  angrily:  "You  talk  of 
suffering — you,  you!  Pardon  me,  but  I  can't  see  what 
you've  ever  had  to  suffer  about,"  her  pretty  lip  curling. 
"From  newspaper  notices,  mostly  of  a  high  social  nature, 
which  I  happened  to  see  from  time  to  time,  I  learned  that 
you  were  leading  a  gay  and  reckless  life  in  Europe,  often 
with  titled  men  and  women,  always  with  the  rich  and  the 
influential.  Do  you  think  any  proud  girl  would  be  apt  to 
forgive  a  man  under  such  circumstances?  And  I  was  as 
proud  as  the  proudest!  I  discovered  that,  when  my  heart 
broken  mother  took  me  to  New  Orleans  and  showed  me 
that  I  must  act  a  lie  among  total  strangers  all  the  rest  of 
my  life  for  the  sake  of  our  helpless  child  that — "  Lydia 
suddenly  checked  herself,  her  hand  quickly  raised  to  her 
mouth.  She  turned  pale,  her  face  hardened,  and  her  lips 
twitched  and  quivered.  She  looked  away,  seeming  con 
scious  that  she  had  said  more  than  she  intended. 

"Our  child — our  child?"  he  gasped  in  surprise.  "Was 
there  a  child?  Is  there  a  child,  Lydia?" 

She  seemed  frightened  by  his  question.  She  was  dog 
gedly  silent,  almost  sullenly  so  till  he  had  repeated  his 
query;  then  she  blurted  out: 

332 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"No,  no ;  I  don't  know  what  I  was  saying.  At  times  my 
mind  gets  wrong  and  I  say  things  with  no  meaning  at  all." 

"But  you  said  it — you  said  it!"  He  leaned  forward, 
his  face  ashen  and  quivering.  "Oh,  Lydia,  you  said  it! 
You  may  have  a  reason  for  wanting  to  deceive  me  about 
this,  but  for  God's  sake  don't  do  it.  If  there  is  a  child, 
a  son  or  a  daughter,  I  want  to  know  it — I  ought  to  know 
it.  Surely,  surely  you  would  not  keep  such  a  vital  thing 
as  that  from  me?'1 

She  lowered  her  head  in  dumb  defiance.  He  saw  only 
her  exquisite  profile.  Her  lips  were  tightly  pressed  to 
gether.  The  lids  of  her  eyes  seemed  to  contract  under 
fear  and  indecision.  He  saw  her  gloved  fingers  clenched 
tightly  over  the  handle  of  her  closed  sunshade,  upon  which 
she  leaned  almost  limply. 

"Oh,  Lydia,  you  must  tell  me  the  truth!'*  he  pleaded. 
"If  there  is  a  child  you  have  no  right,  before  God,  to  hide 
it  from  me." 

She  still  refused  to  look  at  him.  "Well,  I  did  say  it— I 
did  say  it,"  she  confessed,  frowningly,  and  in  growing 
desperation.  "There  was  a  child,  but  he  died — he  died, 
I  tell  you,  and  you  can  never  see  him.  You  deserted  him 
as  you  deserted  me.  He  is  dead — yes,  dead,  dead!" 

"Dead?  Oh,  Lydia,  Lydia,  what  are  you  saying? 
How  long  did  he  live?" 

She  turned  upon  him  almost  as  an  angry  tigress.  ' '  Why 
do  you  want  to  know  so  much  ?  Why  do  you  ask  ?  It — 
it  is  my  matter,  not  yours.  God  knows  you  have  no  right 
to  be  told  anything  concerning  me  and  mine.  I  know 
things  which  you  can  never  know — which  you  should 
never  know — and  that  must  suffice.  I  was  his  sole  guar 
dian,  an  ignorant  mountain  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  ser 
vant,  the  mother  of  a  budding  genius." 

He  groaned  aloud.  "Dead!  Dead!"  he  cried.  "A 
son  of  mine  and  yours,  and  I  am  not  even  to  know  how 
be  looked  or  what  he  was  like?" 

333 


THE   INNER   LAW 

She  seemed  to  be  softened  by  the  wilted  look  of  despair 
which  lay  upon  him,  the  sickening  pallor  of  his  face;  she 
seemed  even  to  pity  him. 

"I  would  like  to  tell  you  more,  but  I  can't — I  simply 
can't,"  she  said,  more  gently  now.  "Yes,  you  have  a 
right  to  know  what  he  was  like.  He  looked  something 
like  you  did  when  I  first  met  you.  I  mean — I  mean," 
she  nervously  corrected,  "that,  as  child,  he  was  slender 
and  had  some  of  your  features.  He  was  imaginative, 
wonderfully  bright,  and  had  a  most  lovable  disposition. 
Strangers  often  stopped  and  admired  him  on  the  streets 
and  gave  him  presents.  He  was  always  saying  unex 
pected  things — wise  things.  I  studied  hard  that  I  might 
teach  him.  He  was  very  affectionate,  and — and  I  adore 
— adored  him." 

"And  he  died  without  my  ever  seeing  him,"  Crofton 
moaned.  "I  have  been  heavily  punished  already,  Lydia; 
but  this  punishment  will  last  the  remainder  of  my  wretched 
life.  I  shall  never  cease  to  remember  that  I  had  a  son 
and  lost  him  through  my  own  cowardice  and  despicable 
weakness." 

"Do  you  mean" — she  bent  toward  him  eagerly  and 
yet  dubiously — "that  if  he  were  alive  you  would  actually 
care  for  him?" 

"I  would  worship  him — die  for  him,"  Crofton  answered, 
fervently.  "I'd  die  for  him  a  thousand  times." 

"Ah,  I  see — I  see,"  her  beautiful  brows  drawn  thought 
fully  together,  "but  you  are  not  looking  deeply  enough. 
It  would  take  the  experience  I  have  had  to  be  able  to  do 
so.  What  if  knowing  you  to  be  his  father,  in  the  sense 
that  you  were  his  father,  would  have  made  his  whole  life 
miserable?  You  see,  he  never  suspected  the  disgraceful 
blight  upon  him.  It  would  have  killed  him.  He  was 
almost  abnormally  proud,  sensitive,  and  aspiring.  No, 
he  could  not  have  stood  it,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
crime  to  put  the  consequences  of  our  conduct  upon  him." 

334 


THE   INNER   LAW 

They  were  both  silent  for  several  minutes,  their  glance 
on  some  sail-boats  on  the  river.  Presently  Crofton  spoke 
again : 

"You  have  not  told  me  how  old  he  was  when  he  died, 
Lydia?" 

"Haven't  I?"  her  lashes  flickering  as  they  sank  over 
her  wonderful  eyes.  "He  was  young — he  was  young; 
that  is  enough  to  say." 

"And  since  then  you  have  been  all  alone?"  he  said, 
gently. 

"Yes,  all  alone;  but  I  had  my  work,  and  it  absorbed 
me.  Now,  I  must  go.  I  have  stayed  out  as  long  as  I 
can.  I  have  a  patient  near  here."  She  stood  up  erectly, 
opened  her  sunshade,  and  turned  toward  the  street.  He 
was  by  her  side  at  once,  but  she  gave  him  a  cold,  firm 
glance.  "I  don't  want  to  pain  you  again,"  she  said; 
"but  I'd  rather  you  would  let  me  go  to  the  street  alone. 
I  can't  fully  explain,  but  I  have  acquaintances  in  this 
neighborhood  whom  I  have  known  for  years,  and  I  might 
meet  them.  Women  in  my  profession  have  to  be  careful, 
and  I  more  than  any  of  the  others.  I  could  not  lie  to 
them  about  you,  as  I'd  have  to  do.  I  could  not  introduce 
you.  My  life  has  been  a  lie,  but  not  a  direct  one." 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  dejectedly;  "but  am  I  not 
to  see  you  again — ever  again?" 

"But  why,  why  do  you  want  to  see  me?"  she  asked, 
her  face  filling  with  a  faint,  pink  glow  which  reminded 
him  of  her  girlhood. 

"Because  you  are  all  I  have  to  care  for  in  the  world," 
he  answered,  fervently.  "I  know  now  that  I  loved  you 
when  I  left  you,  and  that  I  have  loved  you  ever  since. 
A  quarter  of  a  century  of  blind  stupidity  has  shown  me 
your  depth  of  soul  and  character.  I  know  what  you  have 
suffered.  I  must  see  you  again — I  must — I  must!  Oh, 
Lydia,  I  must — I  must!" 

The  pink  glow  was  still  on  her  exquisite  face;  it  seemed 
335 


THE   INNER   LAW 

to  sweep  into  her  eyes  and  fill  them  with  a  melting  light 
of  pity. 

"I  walk  here  on  Saturday  mornings,"  she  said,  finally. 
"  It  is  wrong  for  me  to  meet  you — for  me  to  take  the  risk 
of  meeting  you,  but  I  will  once  more,  anyway.  I  will  be 
here  next  Saturday  morning  at  about  the  time  I  came 
to-day.  Now,  good-by.  Don't  be  unhappy — don't!" 

When  she  had  left  him  he  walked  down  to  the  river's 
edge.  His  very  body  seemed  imponderable.  It  was  as 
if  he  were  a  moving  entity  without  form  or  substance. 
"I  shall  see  her  again!  I  shall  see  her  again!"  he  kept 
saying  to  himself.  "Lydia,  Lydia,  the  mother  of  my 
dead  child — the  sweetest,  most  suffering,  most  wronged 
of  all  women.  God  will  show  me  a  way  to  win  her  for 
giveness.  He  will,  He  will!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  next  afternoon  Crofton  went  to  the  encampment. 
Jimmy  was  on  the  landing,  throwing  out  and  drawing 
in  his  crab-nets. 

"Socrates  has  just  left  here,"  he  said.  "He  is  half  off 
his  nut  to  see  you.  He  went  back  to  the  camp.  He  is 
afraid  you  won't  come  to-day." 

"Anything  particular?"  Crofton  asked. 

"You'll  have  to  ask  him,"  Jimmy  smiled,  mysteriously. 
"It  is  his  business.  He  says  I  can't  hold  my  tongue, 
nohow." 

When  he  had  gotten  half-way  to  the  tent  Crofton  saw 
Socrates  approaching.  On  seeing  him,  the  boy  threw  his 
cap  in  the  air,  shouted  with  glee,  and  danced  merrily  on 
the  grass  by  the  path,  kicking  high  and  comically  curv 
ing  his  arms  over  his  head. 

"What  is  all  this  about?"  Crofton  asked,  feeling  like 
a  boy  at  sport  with  a  boy.  The  hope  roused  by  his  last 
meeting  with  Lydia  had  taken  the  weight  of  years  from 
his  shoulders.  He  felt  like  dancing  and  shouting  himself. 
The  whole  world  seemed  transcendentally  bright,  the 
youth  some  sort  of  human  assurance  of  the  infinite  friend 
liness  and  forgiveness  of  the  universe  to  all  created  beings. 

"We  were  afraid  you'd  happen  not  to  come  to-day,  of 
all  days."  Socrates  was  now  at  his  side,  and  had  put  his 
arm  familiarly  about  his  shoulders.  "If  you  had  failed 
we'd  have  been  the  most  disappointed  bunch  on  the 
shore.  We  are  getting  ready  for  the  spread  in  your  honor. 
We  are  to  have  it  at  six  this  evening." 

22  337 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Ah!   is  that  so?"  Crofton  exclaimed,  delighted. 

"  Yes.  We  have  been  at  work  all  morning,  ten  or  twelve 
of  us,  gathering  logs  and  driftwood  for  a  big  bonfire. 
We  have  bought  a  whole  pig,  and  are  now  roasting  it 
over  a  bed  of  living  coals.  Hurry  up,  I  want  you  to  see 
what  we  are  doing.  The  women  all  along  the  line  have 
lent  us  dishes  and  knives,  forks,  and  spoons,  and  we  have 
built  a  long  table  out  of  planks  and  boards.  It  is  to  be 
a  barbecue  out  and  out." 

"I  don't  deserve  it,  Socrates,"  said  Crofton,  resisting 
an  impulse  to  embrace  the  boy.  "I  am  almost  a  stranger 
to  you  all." 

"Humph!  Well,  they  don't  feel  that  way,"  Socrates 
returned.  "They  have  never  wanted  to  do  this  sort  of 
thing  for  anybody  else.  And  I  haven't  myself.  We 
want  to  do  it — that's  all.  Say,  I  think  they  are  getting 
on  to  you." 

Crofton  started.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  al 
most  fearfully. 

"Why,"  Socrates  laughed,  "they've  been  owning  up 
to  one  another.  They  know  you  can't  afford  it,  but  you 
have  lent  money — or  given  it,  rather — to  nearly  every 
man  here  who  is  out  of  work.  Two  of  them  said  last 
night  that  in  their  cases  you  had  not  waited  to  be  asked. 
One  said  you  actually  apologized  for  doing  it,  that  you 
made  several  'round-about  stabs  at  it,'  as  he  put  it,  be 
fore  you  made  the  offer.  Say,  you  may  think  what  you 
will  of  the  joys  of  existence,  but  the  joy  of  helping  men 
who  are  down  and  out  is  actually  the  greatest  joy  in 
life.  How  can  a  person  doubt  the  love  of  God  when 
a  human  being  can  love  another  as  you  do,  and  be 
kind  to  him?  God  made  mere  human  machines  who 
can  be  kind,  and  yet  skeptics  say  God  Himself  is  not 
kind." 

The  path  was  now  sloping  down  to  the  encampment 
on  the  beach.  Socrates  gave  a  keen  whistle,  which  was 

333 


THE   INNER   LAW 

answered  by  a  hallo  from  below.  At  this  moment  Jim 
my  hurriedly  passed  them,  carrying  a  crab-net  in  either 
hand. 

"Have  you  told  him?"  Crofton  heard  him  ask  Socrates 
under  his  panting  breath. 

"Yes,  he  knows,  you  blooming  chump,"  Socrates 
laughed. 

"Yes,  I  know,  Jimmy,"  Crofton  added.  "It  is  the 
greatest  honor  ever  paid  me." 

"Oh,  come  off!"  Jimmy  sniffed.  "We  are  nothing  but 
a  bunch  o'  hoboes.  Well,  we'll  have  some  fun.  That 
pile  of  logs  will  set  the  river  on  fire.  We  had  a  good  one 
last  year,  but  it  wasn't  in  it  wid  dis  one." 

That  afternoon  Crofton  worked  with  the  others,  draw 
ing  logs,  beams,  boxes,  kegs,  barrels,  and  hogsheads  from 
the  incoming  tide,  and  heaping  them  upon  the  vast  pile 
of  rubbish  on  the  shore.  The  sweat  rolled  in  drops  from 
his  body;  his  skin  was  pink  and  blended  with  tan;  his 
muscles  had  grown  and  toughened;  he  felt  stronger  than 
he  ever  had  felt  before.  It  was  a  novel  experience;  he 
was  playing  like  a  child  with  grown  men  who  had  lapsed 
into  childhood.  He  had  been  born  into  a  veritable  new 
life  in  which  there  was  no  hint  of  his  old  cares. 

While  he  was  helping  in  this  work  the  palatial  yacht 
of  a  well-known  young  millionaire  passed  down  the  river. 
It  was  snowy  white,  and  as  graceful  and  swift  as  a  bird. 
A  small  party  sat  under  awnings  on  deck.  Crofton  paused 
in  his  work,  watching  the  craft  with  the  others,  and  listen 
ing  to  their  wise  and  droll  comments. 

"Boys,  stand  out  o'  me  way!"  Jimmy  cried,  jerking  a 
soiled  red  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  stepping 
forward  on  the  sand.  "I  told  John  P.  last  night  at  the 
club  that  I  would  be  here  to-day.  He  offered  to  send  a 
launch  ashore  for  me  and  take  me  for  a  ride  wid  him  and 
his  dames  (see  'im  waving  his  cap?),  but  I  told  him  I 
wanted  to  be  here  to-day.  Hey,  hey!  old  boy  Johnny,  go 

339 


THE   INNER   LAW 

ahead!"  vigorously  waving  the  handkerchief.  "I  can't  be 
wid  you  dis  morning.  I'm  doin'  some  slummin'  work; 
but  good  luck  to  you,  and  me  regards  to  de  dames." 

"Yes,  he  wants  you,  you  slob,"  a  dry  wit,  a  shad-fisher 
man  from  up  the  river,  called  out;  "he  wants  you  to  peel 
potatoes  or  mop  the  deck." 

"Dry  up!  I've  got  your  number,  you  rummy." 
Jimmy  smiled  good-naturedly,  stuffing  his  handkerchief 
into  his  hip  pocket.  "I  know  you,  all  right." 

The  sun  went  down  in  a  blaze  of  red  and  gold  which 
rested  like  a  crown  on  the  Palisades.  The  shadows  of 
the  mighty  cliff -peaks  crept  across  the  river  and  the  far- 
off  buildings  of  the  city  were  draped  in  the  thickening 
folds  of  twilight.  The  heap  of  logs  was  lighted.  Slow 
ly  it  burned  at  first,  and  then  the  flames  crept  in  and 
out  and  higher  and  higher.  They  danced  around  it, 
men,  women,  and  children — shouting,  laughing,  singing, 
jesting.  When  the  blaze  was  at  its  height  dinner  was 
announced.  Jimmy  and  another  man  grasped  Crofton 
by  the  arms  and  forced  him  to  take  the  only  seat  at  the 
table,  an  inverted  sugar-barrel.  Jimmy  invited  himself 
to  make  a  speech,  and  would  have  succeeded  in  doing  so 
but  for  the  yells  and  groans  of  the  others.  There  were  no 
formalities.  Crof ton's  brain  fairly  swam  in  a  flood  of 
content.  Everybody  was  hungry  and  everybody  was 
joking  and  yet  courteous  to  his  fellow. 

The  bonfire  began  to  lose  its  whiter  light,  and  by  the 
time  the  feast  was  over  it  had  become  a  vast  heap  of  livid 
coals  and  embers.  The  lights  in  the  boats  on  the  river 
were  like  creeping  stars  in  a  sky  lowered  to  the  feet  of 
the  beholders.  Now  and  then  from  some  boat  came 
music,  singing,  the  twanging  of  stringed  instruments, 
merry  laughter.  The  joy  on  the  water  seemed  an  over 
flow  of  the  joy  on  the  shore. 

When  most  of  the  women  and  children  had  gone  to 
their  tents  some  of  the  men,  who  lived  too  far  away  to 

340 


THE   INNER   LAW 

return  that  night,  threw  themselves  on  the  ground  near 
the  fire  and  went  to  sleep.  Socrates  approached  Crofton, 
who  was  thinking  of  going  back  to  the  city. 

"You  mustn't  go,"  he  said.  "I  have  an  extra  cot  in 
my  tent  for  you.  It  would  be  hard  for  you  to  catch  a 
boat  at  this  hour,  and  I  know  you  are  tired  like  all  the 
rest  of  us." 

Crofton  gratefully  accepted  the  invitation,  and  he  and 
the  boy  went  to  the  tent  and  retired.  They  were  about 
to  extinguish  the  little  oil-lamp  when  Crofton  thought 
he  detected  an  unexpressed  desire  of  some  vague  sort  in 
his  companion's  shadowy  face. 

"What  is  on  your  mind,  Socrates?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  but  the  word  was  accompanied  by  a 
sigh,  and  the  boy  turned  the  wick  of  the  lamp  low  and 
asked:  "Are  you  ready?  Shall  I  put  it  out?" 

"Yes;  but  you  haven't  answered  my  question  yet," 
Crofton  replied.  "I  have  caught  you  looking  at  me  anx 
iously  several  times  to-day." 

"Oh,  is  that  so?"  He  blew  out  the  light,  and  they 
were  in  darkness.  Crofton  heard  the  boy's  cot  creak  as 
he  stretched  his  slender  limbs  out  on  it. 

"Yes,  your  mind  was  on  something  besides  all  that  fun 
and  nonsense.  There  were  times  when  you  did  not  join 
in  with  the  others.  Once  I  saw  you  sitting  alone  with  a 
worried  frown  on  your  face.  You  are  too  young  for  that." 

"Well,  I'll  own  up,"  Socrates  said,  unsteadily.  "Say, 
you  will  think  I  am  a  hopeless  novice  and  troublesome, 
but  you  remember  you  promised  to — to  send  that  poem 
of  mine  to  a  magazine?" 

"Yes.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  sent  it?  I  supposed  you 
would  take  it  for  granted,  after  what  I  said.  I  sent  it 
off  at  once." 

"Did  you  really,  really?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  and,  moreover,  I  wrote  a  strong  letter 
of  commendation  with  it." 

34i 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"And — and — "  Socrates'  voice  faltered  and  died 
away.  For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke,  but  Crofton 
heard  the  boy  sigh  again,  turn  over  suddenly,  and  utter 
an  exclamation  of  impatience.  " What's  the  use?"  he 
cried.  "I  might  as  well  own  up.  The  thing  has  worried 
me  more  than  anything  for  years." 

"Worried  you?    I  don't  understand." 

"  Well,  it  has.  I'm  made  that  way,  and  I  can't  help  it. 
You  saw  something  in  the  blame  poem  because  you  want 
to  please  me,  and  you  think  it  will  suit  a  magazine,  but 
it  won't.  It  will  come  back  to  you,  and  then  you  will 
have  the  contempt  for  me  that  I  deserve  for  being  so 
conceited.  A  success  like  that  is  not  for  me.  I'd  rather 
have  it  than  all  the  money  in  the  world,  but  it  is  not  for 
me — not  for  me,  and  it  is  hard  to  think  how  thoroughly 
you  will  despise  me  when  you  realize  the  truth.  I  ought 
to  have  stopped  you — I  ought — I  ought!" 

Crofton  was  deeply  moved.  He  sat  up  and  leaned  tow 
ard  the  silent  shape  against  the  tent  cloth.  "Listen  to 
me,"  he  said,  almost  huskily.  "  I  am  not  overrating  your 
work  because  I  know  and  like  you  personally.  That 
poem  is  wonderful.  The  lines  ring  in  my  ears  constantly ; 
your  original  thought  and  richness  of  expression  thrill 
me  through  and  through.  There  are  times  when  I  look 
upon  you  as  a  prophet — a  reincarnation  of  one  of  the  old 
ones.  I  am  as  sure  of  the  success  of  that  poem,  and 
others  you  have  written,  as  I  am  that  you  lie  there  tor 
turing  yourself  with  self-criticism." 

"Oh,  it  can't  be— it  can't!"  the  boy  fairly  sobbed.  "I 
dare  not  let  myself  hope  it.  The  disappointment  would 
kill  me.  I  want  it  for  your  sake.  I  want  it  for  my 
mother's  sake.  I  don't  think  she  has  ever  hoped  that  I 
could  do  such  a  thing  well  enough  for  publication.  I  want 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  work  itself,  too ;  but,  oh,  it  will  come 
back — it  will  come  back!  Then  you  will  see  that  you 
were  mistaken,  that  you  let  your  kind  heart  run  away 

342 


THE   INNER   LAW 

with  your  judgment.  Poof!  I'm  only  a  mechanic.  My 
place  is  at  a  bench  on  a  carpet  of  sawdust  and  shavings. 
God  made  me  nameless.  Why  should  I  be  allowed  to  gain 
a  name  or  a  respectable  place  in  a  world  which  has  never 
been  mine?" 

"For  the  very  reason  that  you  have  suffered  so  bravely, 
so  patiently,"  Crofton  was  fairly  pleading.  "And  it 
would  please  your  mother,  you  say?" 

"Please  her?  She'd  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
world.  She  thinks  I  have  a  good  mind,  but  she  doesn't 
dream  that  I  ever  really  hoped  for  success  as  a  writer, 
and  I  don't — I  don't!  Remember  that — remember  that, 
when  the  manuscript  comes  back.  Don't  bring  it  to  me ; 
destroy  it — don't  let  me  see  it  again.  Simply  remain 
silent  and  I'll  understand — I'll  understand!" 

"The  editor  will  communicate  with  you,  in  my  care," 
Crofton  said.  "I  asked  him  to  do  that,  because  I  thought 
he  would  like  to  write  to  you  personally.  Don't  be  de 
spondent,  my  boy.  The  world  is  brighter  than  it  looks. 
I  know,  for  I  have  been  through  the  depths  and  seem  to 
be  coming  out  into  light." 

They  were  silent  for  several  minutes.  Presently  Soc 
rates  spoke  again  of  his  mother.  "Yes,  it  would  delight 
her!  She  wants  me  to  quit  my  job,  anyway.  She  is 
pleased  with  California.  She  has  decided  to  buy  a  small 
cottage  out  there  so  that  she  and  I  can  live  together. 
She  hopes  that  I  can  get  employment,  and  she  wants  to 
stop  traveling  about  so  much.  Oh,  if  only  I  could  earn 
money  by  writing!  What  joy  could  be  like  that  for  her 
and  for  me?" 

"California!"  Crofton  lay  still.  California  would  be 
his  new  friend's  home  in  the  future,  and  he  would  remain 
alone  in  New  York  or  be  forced  to  resume  his  wanderings, 
with  nothing  for  their  object,  nothing  for  their  goal. 
He  now  realized  for  the  first  time  and  fully  how  fond  he 
was  of  the  lad  by  his  side,  and  a  pang  of  pain  passed 

343 


THE    INNER   LAW 

through  him  at  the  thought  of  parting  from  him  for 
ever. 

"You  will  be  happy  there  with  a  home  of  your  own," 
he  heard  himself  saying.  "It  is  a  beautiful  country,  and 
the  climate  is  fine.  They  appreciate  art  and  literature 
out  there,  and  will  encourage  you." 

"If  only  it  could  be!"  the  boy  sighed.  "But  it  can't— 
it  can't !  Fate  has  hit  me  below  the  belt  all  my  life,  even 
when  I  was  younger  and  weaker.  It  won't  fight  fair  in 
this,  either.  It  is  a  dream — a  dream — and  I'll  have  to 
remain  as  I  am." 

An  hour  passed  before  the  tired  boy  slept,  but  even 
then  the  man  remained  wakeful,  for  he  was  unusually 
distressed,  and  it  was  long  past  midnight  before  he,  too, 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  the  Saturday  morning  of  his  appointment  to  meet 
Lydia  in  Riverside  Park,  Crofton  received  a  letter 
from  Farnham,  and  he  read  it  as  he  walked  away  from 
the  house.  The  first  part  of  the  letter  pertained  to  busi 
ness  matters,  but  it  was  the  closing  lines  which  interested 
the  recipient  most. 

"Don't  think  I've  been  meddling  clumsily/'  Farnham 
wrote,  "for  I  am  sure  I  have  accomplished  results  in  that 
family  matter  of  yours.  In  fact,  I  think  I  worked  your 
sister  as  fine  as  I  ever  did  a  man  in  a  keen  trade,  and 
that  is  saying  a  lot.  The  more  I  thought  of  the  injustice 
of  her  rotten  scheme,  the  madder  it  made  me.  You  see, 
I've  got  a  personal  interest  in  it,  too,  for  her  ridiculous 
suit  would  naturally  bring  our  enterprises  to  the  front, 
and  some  jokes  would  be  made  at  our  expense  which  would 
not  exactly  help  increase  dividends.  So  I  simply  decided 
to  get  to  work  on  the  matter  and  wipe  it  out. 

"I  called  on  her  in  her  shady,  cavelike  home,  ostensibly 
to  let  her  know  I  had  seen  her  dear  brother  in  New  York 
and  found  him  well;  then  I  gave  her  plenty  of  line  and 
watched  her  play.  She  took  my  bait  and  swam  straight 
toward  me,  every  fin  and  scale  showing.  She  appealed 
to  my  honor  as  a  Southern  gentleman  of  the  old  school 
(I'm  afraid  I  was  expelled  long  ago),  and  said  it  was  the 
talk  of  all  Atlanta  that  you  were  losing  your  mind,  throw 
ing  your  money  away  recklessly  on  anybody  who  would 
take  it,  and  insisted  on  my  standing  by  her  and  furnishing 
ample  evidence  to  support  her  claim.  I  listened 

345 


THE    INNER   LAW 

lively  and  then  proposed  that  she  and  I  go  see  her 
lawyer  and  talk  it  over.  She  fell  into  it  at  once.  You've 
seen  that  despicable  shark,  Wade  Darlington.  He  is  by 
far  the  most  contemptible  scoundrel  unhung.  He  would 
have  been  behind  the  bars  long  ago  but  for  his  knowledge 
of  how  to  evade  the  law.  He  has  defended  so  many  cut 
throats  and  thieves  that  he  is  an  embodiment  in  bloodless 
flesh  of  both  classes.  When  he  saw  me  enter  his  office 
with  your  sister  he  at  once  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was 
her  witness,  and  he  fell  all  over  me.  My  very  name 
melted  in  his  mouth.  I  listened  to  their  talk  and  their 
plans  for  an  hour,  pretending  all  along  to  see  nothing 
wrong  in  them.  Finally,  your  sister  left  me  and  him  to 
gether.  I  had  myself  been  laying  a  little  plan  more  or 
less  justifiable  according  to  the  state  of  one's  morals  and 
enforced  associates,  and  when  I  had  him  to  myself  I  re 
marked  to  him — as  a  starter — that  had  I  only  known 
that  there  really  was  such  a  legal  brain  in  the  South  as 
his  our  company  certainly  would  not  have  allowed  another 
firm  of  lawyers  to  represent  us  in  our  legal  matters. 
Thereupon  I  hinted — you  may  not  know,  on  your  highly 
spiritual  plane,  how  I  can  hint  at  purely  mundane  things 
which  have  no  possibility  of  existing,  but  I  hinted  that 
there  was  really  no  actual  reason  why  we  should  not  a 
little  later  turn  our  legal  matters  over  to  him.  I  did  not 
commit  myself — I  seldom  do,  you  know — I  simply  hinted 
at  what  might  happen,  seeing  that  I  had  by  pure  accident, 
as  it  were,  discovered  a  real  legal  genius.  He  bit  my 
bait,  too — it  was  a  good  day  for  suckers.  He  abused 
our  lawyers  as  the  most  brainless,  inefficient  firm  that 
ever  disgraced  the  bar  of  America,  and  asked  me  trem 
blingly,  as  he  spoke  of  his  big  earnings,  how  much  his  ser 
vices  would  be  worth  to  us.  I  told  him  I'd  have  to  con 
sult  our  directors,  and  rose  as  if  to  go.  At  the  door  I 
turned  back,  as  if  on  second  thought.  There  is  one  diffi 
culty  in  your  getting  the  appointment  right  off,  anyway, 


THE    INNER    LAW 

I  remarked,  casually,  though  I  knew  I  was  hurling  a 
bomb.  'What  is  it?'  he  asked,  uneasily,  almost  pale  with 
sudden  anxiety. 

"'Why,'  I  answered,  'as  matters  now  stand,  I'll  have 
to  get  Crofton's  sanction  as  a  director  and  main  stock 
holder,  and  I'm  just  a  little  bit  afraid  when  he  learns  of 
your  management  of  his  sister's  case  he  might  oppose  any 
effort  of  mine  to  employ  you.' 

"He  actually  turned  pale.  'I  see,  I  see,'  he  frowned. 
'Why  didn't  I  think  of  that?'  He  made  me  stay  longer. 
He  walked  back  and  forth  as  restlessly  as  a  lion  in  a 
cage.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  me. 

"This  matter  of  Miss  Crofton's  is  merely  a  chance, 
anyway,  don't  you  think?'  he  inquired,  anxiously. 

"'Oh,  well,'  I  said,  'I  presume  you  get  a  fair  retaining 
fee,  anyway,  and  that  is  something  to  the  good?' 

"'She  won't  pay  any,'  he  growled;  'she  never  does. 
If  I  can't  put  the  thing  through  I  won't  get  a  red  cent. 
What  do  you  think  of  my  chances?' 

"I  shook  my  head  slowly — I  was  afraid  my  hook  would 
slip  out  of  his  gills.  'To  be  frank,'  I  answered,  finally, 
'  if  I  am  put  on  oath  as  a  chief  witness,  I  could  not  swear 
that  I  think  Crofton  is  insane,  or  anywhere  near  it.  It 
would  be  a  strange  jury  of  human  beings  that  would 
take  a  man's  property  from  him  for  being  mildly  chari 
table,  and  turn  it  over  to  one  who  isn't.  I  am  afraid  there 
are  two  kinds  of  insanity — liberality  and  stinginess — and 
there  are  some  people  who  say  that  your  client  is  not 
wholly  rational.' 

" 'I  see,  I  see.'  He  squeezed  his  bearded  chin  nervous 
ly,  and  his  little  eyes  blinked  rapidly.  'What  do  you 
think  I'd  better  do?'  he  inquired.  'You  and  I  may  be 
closely  connected  in  future,  and  I  want  your  advice.  You 
see,  I  am  between  two  fires.' 

"I  still  hung  back,  for  I  was  afraid  the  scamp  might 
have  intuition.  I  resented  his  cocksureness,  too,  in  re- 

347 


THE   INNER   LAW 

gard  to  the  imaginary  change  of  our  legal  advisers,  and 
felt  like  kicking  him  for  their  sake  as  well  as  yours.  He 
warmly  insisted  on  hearing  from  me,  however,  and  my 
delay  in  giving  an  opinion  made  it  all  the  more  convinc 
ing.  Presently  I  said: 

'"I  can  only  tell  you  how  I  would  act  if  I  were  in  your 
place.  I  wouldn't  touch  as  flimsy  a  case  as  that  with 
a  ten-foot  pole.  You  can't  win  it,  and  your  failure  would 
only  make  you  the  laughing-stock  of  the  entire  South, 
and  turn  Crofton  against  you.' 

'"I  think  you  are  right/  my  floundering  fish  said.  ' I'll 
see  her  to-day  and  advise  her  to  drop  it.' 

"'Well/  I  said,  indifferently,  'I  think  that  is  best.' 

"To  make  a  long  story  short,  your  sweet  sister  came  to 
me  the  next  day  and  told  me  she  had  decided  not  to  pro 
ceed  against  you,  that  she  loved  you  too  much,  and  a 
lot  more.  She  begged  me  not  to  tell  you  what  she  had 
been  about  (and  I  sha'n't — I  swear  I  sha'n't).  As  she 
was  leaving  she  asked  me  if  I  thought  you'd  ever  marry, 
and  I  told  her  I  did  not  think  it  was  likely — that  sane 
men  seldom  ever  did,  and  that  I  was  sure  you  still  had 
your  wits  about  you." 


CHAPTER  XI 

PLEASED  and  vaguely  soothed  over  the  contents  of 
1  the  letter,  Crofton  strode  blithely  along  Riverside 
Drive  toward  the  entrance  to  the  Park.  It  was  a  rarely 
beautiful  morning.  The  walk  was  shaded  by  the  tall 
apartment-houses  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  wide  thorough 
fare  and  the  fine  trees  in  its  center.  The  loungers  reading 
newspapers  on  the  green  benches,  the  nurse-maids  in  white 
aprons  and  beribboned  caps  with  the  pretty,  well-groomed 
children,  reminded  him  of  the  boulevards  of  Paris. 

He  descended  into  the  Park  and  at  once  sought  the  seat 
he  had  occupied  with  Lydia.  He  was  full  of  nervous 
excitement  and  anxiety.  What  if  she  should  not  come, 
after  all?  What  if  she  should  have  changed  her  mind 
and  gone  away  from  the  city  on  some  sudden  call  to  duty? 
The  day  was  warm,  and  yet  he  was  cold  all  over  and  trem 
bled.  How  could  he  bear  such  a  disappointment,  for  he 
had  built  much  on  her  reluctant  consent  to  meet  him? 
She  had  been  in  his  thoughts  every  hour  since  they  had 
parted.  She  must  pity  him — she  must  listen  to  him.  He 
couldn't  give  her  up.  The  hope  of  her  was  filling  his 
lonely  life  like  an  infinite  promise  of  ultimate  redemption. 
She  must  be  his — she  must,  she  must ! 

The  minutes  dragged  by;  an  hour  was  gone  and  still 
she  had  not  come.  His  hopes  were  at  the  lowest  ebb. 
He  paced  restlessly  back  and  forth  along  the  concrete 
walk,  now  and  then  returning  to  ascend  the  stone  steps 
and  look  down  and  up  the  Drive.  Presently  he  saw  her 
alighting  from  a  'bus  at  the  point  where  she  and  he  had 

349 


THE    INNER   LAW 

descended  before,  and  his  blood  pounded  madly  in  his 
veins.  Remembering  what  she  had  said  about  not 
wanting  to  be  seen  with  him  on  the  street,  he  quickly  re 
treated  to  the  bench  where  they  had  sat  before,  and  stood 
waiting  for  her.  Oh,  how  slow  she  was — how  very  slow! 
In  fact,  she  was  so  long  in  making  her  appearance  at  the 
head  of  the  steps  which  he  was  hungrily  watching  that 
he  was  filled  with  fresh  apprehension.  What  could  be 
the  matter?  He  was  about  to  go  back  to  the  street 
when  he  descried  her  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  stepping 
daintily  down.  She  smiled  apologetically  when  she  had 
reached  him. 

"You  thought  I  was  not  coming,"  she  began,  tenta 
tively,  as  she  half -hesitatingly  gave  him  her  gloved  hand. 
"I  was  detained  at  home  for  fully  an  hour.  I  had  to 
talk  with  a  physician  about  an  important  case  of  a  poor 
woman  who  is  unable  to  pay  him  or  me.  I  have  agreed 
to  take  it  and  begin  this  afternoon.  Then  right  up  there, 
as  I  left  the  'bus,  I  met  a  doctor  I  know.  I  had  to  stop 
for  a  moment.  I  saw  you  standing  at  the  entrance,  and 
was  glad  you  came  back  here." 

"I  have  been  crazy  to  see  you,  Lydia,"  he  began.  "I 
have  thought  of  nothing  but  you  since  last  Saturday. 
You  have  given  me  new  life;  you  must  not  take  it  from 
me." 

He  saw  her  beautiful  brows  contract,  and  a  troubled 
look  rise  in  the  depths  of  her  thoughtful  eyes.  "Oh,  if 
only  it  lay  with  me — wholly  with  me!"  she  said,  almost  as 
if  to  herself.  "But  it  doesn't,  Carter" — the  old  name — 
pronounced  as  of  old  in  the  sweet  Southern  accent — 
slipped  from  her  impulsive  lips.  "See,  I  have  always 
called  you  that  in  my  memory,  because  I  once  did,  you 
know.  Oh,  I  am  helpless,  Carter,  absolutely  helpless!" 

"How?  What  do  you  mean?  Can't  you  explain?" 
he  implored  her. 

She  slowly  shook  her  head  as  she  sat  down.  "Explain? 

350 


THE    INNER   LAW 

That  is  it;  I  can't  even  explain.  You  will  have  to  take 
my  word  for  it,  that  is  all." 

"Take  your  word  for  it?"  He  checked  a  groan.  "I 
can't,  Lydia,  if  it  means  that  we  are  to  remain  parted.  I 
can  stand  anything  but  that  now.  I  now  know  that  in 
the  eyes  of  God  you  are  my  wife,  and  weak  as  I  have  been, 
neglectful  as  I've  been,  cruel  as  I've  been,  still — oh, 
Lydia,  you  are  the  mother  of  our  poor  dead  son,  and  I, 
who  have  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  a  father,  and 
who  yearns  for  fatherhood  as  no  man  I  have  ever  known 
yearns — " 

"Don't — don't  speak  of  him!"  she  exclaimed,  her  lips 
twitching.  "We  mustn't  speak  of  him — we  mustn't!" 

"But  why?"  he  groaned,  as  he  sat  down  closer  to  her 
than  he  had  dared  on  their  former  meeting.  "Lydia,  in 
my  mind  I  have  asked  you  a  thousand  questions  about 
him  since  I  learned  of  his  birth  and  death.  Oh,  Lydia, 
you  saw  him — you  knew  him — you  actually  heard  his 
voice,  while  I,  who  deserted  him  like  a  craven  coward — " 

"Don't!  Don't!"  she  pleaded.  "I  shall  go  if  you 
don't  stop." 

"Then  I'll  stop,"  he  yielded.     "You  know  best." 

"Yes,  I  certainly  know  best,  about  him,  at  least,"  she 
agreed.  He  saw  tears  in  her  eyes;  the  flood  of  them 
seemed  to  back  up  beneath  her  delicate  pink-and-olive 
skin,  adding  inexplicable  emotional  beauty  to  her  rare 
face.  "It  was  of  something  else  I  hoped  to  speak  to  you 
to-day.  We  have  naturally  different  points  of  view, 
perhaps.  Carter,  from  words  you  have  dropped  I  fancy 
you  are  different  in  character  from  what  you  were  away 
back  there  in  the  mountains.  I  almost  think — I  think 
sometimes  that  you  have  become  even  religious." 

"I  may  be,"  he  admitted.  "I  am  just  beginning  to 
try  to  live  as  I  think  a  man  ought  to  live  to  put  himself 
into  harmony  with  God's  highest  law." 

She  led  him  on  adroitly,  a  vast  interest  and  suspense 


THE    INNER    LAW 

in  her  manner,  to  speak  of  his  gradual  awakening  to 
spiritual  verities.  He  left  nothing  out.  He  bared  his 
soul  to  her  as  he  had  scarcely  even  bared  it  to  himself. 
He  went  back  to  his  terrible  struggle  between  two  im 
pulses  in  New  Orleans,  his  uncle's  God-lent  advice  on  one 
hand  and  Farnham's  materialistic  views  on  the  other.  In 
a  cowed  whisper,  and  avoiding  the  steady  stare  of  her  eyes, 
which  were  full  of  shimmering  tears  of  sympathy,  he  told 
of  his  final  decision.  Next  he  spoke  of  his  reckless  life 
in  Europe  in  that  long,  misguided  effort  to  drown  the  past 
in  the  pursuit  of  vanity,  frivolity,  and  a  collapsing  career 
in  letters.  He  spoke  of  his  effort  to  marry  a  woman  he 
did  not  love,  merely  that  he  might  have  companionship 
and  some  sort  of  home.  He  described  his  return  to 
America,  his  brother's  terrible  death  and  its  profound 
effect  upon  him.  He  mentioned  his  search  for  the  mean 
ing  of  life  through  idealistic  philosophy,  and  lastly  how 
he  had  found  a  certain  sense  of  peace,  or  a  promise  of 
peace,  in  self-renunciation  and  association  with  the  hum 
blest  of  humanity  and  his  effort  to  help  them. 

When  he  had  finished  she  suddenly  put  out  her  hand  in 
an  unconscious  impulse,  and  laid  it  on  his  arm  almost 
with  a  touch  of  tenderness.  "And  to  think  that  this 
can  be  you,  actually  you!"  she  said,  tremulously.  "Oh, 
I  have  prayed  that  this  might  come  to  you,  the  father 
of  my  sweet  boy,  for  his  sake  as  well  as  yours.  It  is  the 
only  key  to  life,  Carter,  and  you  are  finding  it  through 
trouble  and  pain  just  as  I  found  it  in  the  darkest  shadows 
that  ever  encompassed  a  woman.  Oh,  Carter,  my  whole 
life  has  been  one  of  lonely  spiritual  hunger  to  meet  some 
one  who  understands  these  great  truths,  and  I  have  found 
that  person  in  you — you  of  all  human  beings  under  the 
sun!" 

"You  understand,  too,  I  see,"  he  said,  gently,  tenderly. 
"There  is  a  law,  and  man  can  grasp  it,  can't  he,  Lydia?" 

"Yes,  yes,  without  doubt,"  she  returned.  "I  wonder 

352 


THE   INNER   LAW 

if  I  am  not  wrong  in  deploring  anything  that  has  taken 
place — anything? ' ' 

"I  don't  quite  follow  you,"  he  ventured,  feeling  ec 
statically  as  if  they  had  left  their  bodies  and  were  float 
ing  hand  in  hand  somewhere,  somehow,  in  a  new  and 
unknown  element  from  which  all  material  sordidness  was 
dropping  like  rain  from  a  cloud. 

"Why,  Carter,  since  our  troubles,  our  bitter  experiences 
have  brought  us  to  this  wonderful  exaltation  and  vision 
of  mystic  truth,  how  can  we  reproach  God  for  leading 
us  through  them?  Faith  is  so  beautiful — faith  to  God 
first,  and  next  to  man  as  His  miniature.  See,  you  have 
faith  in  me.  You  have  not  seen  me  for  all  these  years. 
My  life  has  been  a  closed  book  to  you.  When  you  left 
me  I  was  a  poor,  ragged,  ignorant  girl.  I  am  now  in  a 
profession  that  has  thrown  me  into  contact  with  all  sorts 
of  men  and  temptations,  yet  here  you  are  full  of  boundless 
faith  and  trust  in  me.  You  doubted  that  woman  in 
Geneva  whom  you  thought  of  marrying.  You  do  not 
doubt  me  because  God  has  torn  the  scales  from  your  eyes 
and  shown  you  my  true  self.  I  trust  you,  too.  I  see 
your  very  pleading  soul  with  the  eyes  of  mine,  and  I  am 
going  to  confess  something  that  many  a  proud  woman 
would  hide  for  ever,  and  that  is,  Carter,  that,  in  spite  of 
all  that  has  happened,  I  have  loved  you  every  day,  every 
hour,  every  minute,  since  I  first  met  you  with  that  dusting- 
rag  in  my  hands  in  your  uncle's  library.  I  have  always 
known  that  it  was  your  outer  self  that  was  cruel,  blind, 
and  thoughtless,  and  so,  as  I  nursed  that  tiny  counter 
part  of  yourself  on  my  breast  I  kept  you  in  my  heart  and 
prayed  for  you  day  and  night." 

Crofton  was  so  full  of  blended  sympathy  and  joy  that 
he  could  not  speak.  There  was  no  one  in  sight,  and  he 
reached  out  and  took  her  hand.  She  allowed  him  to  hold 
it  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  felt  her  gently,  firmly,  with 
drawing  it.  To  his  surprise,  he  heard  her  sigh.  She 

23  353 


THE    INNER   LAW 

stroked  her  quivering  lips  with  the  hand  he  had  released, 
and  her  face  clouded  over. 

"Oh,  Lydia,  Lydia,  you  have  made  me  very  happy!" 
he  faltered.  "You  are  to  be  my  wife  at  last.  We'll  be 
the  happiest  pair  God  ever  created.  We've  been  expelled, 
but  we  are  going  back  into  the  Garden  of  Eden,  my  own, 
my  own,  my  darling!" 

"Oh,  I  see — I  see  what  you — you  hope  for."  She 
lowered  her  head  and  uttered  a  little  gasp  which  was  like 
a  welling  sob. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  pleaded  in  growing  con 
sternation. 

She  was  silent.  She  rose,  turned  her  back  upon  him, 
and  he  thought  that  the  action  was  to  hide  her  face,  for 
it  was  filling  with  the  gray  shadows  of  inner  and  sensitive 
pain.  He  stood  beside  her,  wondering  what  could  be  in 
her  thoughts,  far-reaching,  even  superstitious  fears  flood 
ing  over  him.  Still  silent,  she  led  him  down  the  walk 
closer  to  the  water's  edge.  On  the  greensward  children 
were  playing  with  tennis-balls  and  rackets,  and  with  merry 
shouts  and  laughter  rolling  on  the  thick  grass  like  playful 
puppies. 

"You  alarm  me,  Lydia,"  he  ventured,  tentatively. 
"You  show  that  you  are  not  happy." 

"Happy?  How  can  I  be  that?"  She  suddenly  turned 
her  wistful  eyes  upon  him.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Listen  to  me,  Carter,  oh,  listen  to  me,  dear!"  she  said, 
softly.  "We  have  both  been  blessed  by  an  almost  super 
normal  knowledge  of  God  and  His  holy  demands  on  His 
children.  Have  you  ever  thought  that  the  strangest, 
the  very  strangest  thing  that  Jesus  ever  said  was  that  we 
must  love  God  more  than  wife,  husband,  or  child,  and  if 
not  we  cannot  be  true  followers  of  Him?" 

"Yes,  it  is  strange,  almost  incomprehensible,"  Crofton 
returned,  wondering  what  her  drift  could  be. 

"It  may  be  the  truest  thing  ever  spoken  by  'God  to 

354 


THE    INNER   LAW 

,man,"  she  went  on,  "a  message  not  meant  for  the  unini 
tiated,  but  for  such  as  you  and  me.  Carter,  Carter,  dear, 
God  may  not  intend  us  for  each  other,  here  on  this  plane  of 
life,  at  least." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that—don't,  don't!"  he  pleaded,  pas 
sionately,  desperately. 

"I  can't  help  it,  for  I  know — know — know  a  thing  that 
you  don't  know,  and  which  you  must  never  know.  I  can't 
serve  God  and  Mammon  and  you  are  my  Mammon !" 

"  Puff!"  he  exclaimed  in  relief.  " I'll  throw  it  all  away, 
if  money  is  what  you  mean.  I  don't  want  it.  It  has  been 
a  curse  to  me  every  day  of  my  life,  and  if  I  lose  you 
through  it  it  will  be  worse  than  a  curse,  it  will  be  my 
eternal  damnation." 

"I  don't  mean  that  you  are  my  Mammon  in  that  sense." 
She  was  quick  to  correct  the  impression  he  had  sprung  to 
receive.  "I  mean — I  mean — oh,  if  I  dared  to  tell  you 
everything  you  would  see  what  I  mean,  but  as  much  as 
I  trust  you  in  all  other  things  I  cannot  quite  trust  you  in 
this.  I  can't — I  can't!  Your  very  nobleness  and  ten 
derness  of  heart  make  it  impossible." 

"You  bewilder  me,  you  mystify  me!"  he  cried.  " You 
intimate  that  I  am  to  lose  you,  and  I  can't  lose  you  now, 
Lydia.  I  can't — I  simply  can't!" 

"Not  if  God  has  decreed  it — decreed  it  as  our  supreme 
test  of  faith  and  total  renunciation  of  ourselves?"  she 
asked,  a  soft  glow  of  supernal  light  filling  her  face  and  eyes, 
its  accompanying  music  vibrating  in  her  tense  voice. 

"It  couldn't  be  so,"  he  groaned,  "not  now — not  after 
all  we  have  suffered." 

"Is  it  not  a  spiritual  fact,"  she  asked,  with  a  little  con 
clusive  sigh,  "has  it  not  been  shown  in  religious  history, 
that  the  nearer  a  bowed  and  broken  seeker  gets  to  God 
the  greater  the  sacrifices  which  are  demanded?  If  you 
knew  all  I  know  you'd  see,  as  I  see,  that  we  cannot  do 
ourjluty  to  the  supreme  law — we  cannot  fully  atone  for 

355 


THE    INNER   LAW 

our  transgression  —  without  giving  up  each  other.  We 
want  each  other  now  more  than  we  want  God,  and  we 
must  rise  above  it  or  we  are  lost." 

He  was  actually  stunned  by  her  words  and  the  calm 
force  of  her  utterance.  "  You  are  keeping  back  something 
from  me,"  he  finally  said.  "  My  God,  my  God,  Lydia,  are 
you  married?" 

"Oh  no,  no!"  she  shook  her  head.  "It  isn't  that— oh 
no,  no!" 

"And  you  won't  explain?"  he  gasped,  his  face  white, 
his  lips  limp  and  sagging  piteously. 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  her  own  lips  drawn  tight  from  pain. 
"I  have  no  right  to  do  so.  And  if  you  knew  all  you'd 
see  you  really  have  no  right  to  ask." 

He  pleaded  no  longer.  They  had  found  another  bench 
and  seated  themselves  upon  it.  An  hour  of  bleeding  si 
lence  passed.  The  bell  of  a  church  across  the  river  a 
mile  or  more  distant  rang  slowly,  the  waves  of  sound 
floating  mellowly  on  the  sunlit  waves  of  water. 

"And  yet  he  ought  to  know;  he  has  a  right  to  know," 
he  heard  her  saying,  almost  as  if  in  prayer.  "He  would 
not  betray  such  a  sacred  trust;  he  is  too  noble." 

"I  would  betray  nothing."  He  leaned  toward  her,  his 
very  drooping  attitude  a  prayer  to  her.  "I  would  give 
my  life  a  dozen  times  rather  than  disobey  you  in  the 
slightest  wish." 

"Then  I'll  trust  you—I'll  tell  you,"  she  said,  impul 
sively.  "Carter,  our  union — even  a  continued  friend 
ship — is  absolutely  impossible.  You  will  understand 
when  I  say  that  our  son  is  not  dead.  For  his  sake  I  lied 
to  you.  From  his  very  babyhood — to  save  him  from  pain 
and  humiliation  before  the  world — I  taught  him  that  his 
father  was  dead.  He  is  as  proud  as  you  once  were,  and 
as  ambitious  and  sensitive." 

"Not  dead?"  Crofton  cried.     "Our  son  alive?" 

She  nodded  her  head  slowly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 

356 


THE   INNER   LAW 

toe  of  her  shoe  showing  beneath  her  skirt.  "No,  he  is 
not  dead;  now  you  comprehend,"  she  added,  almost  in 
a  ghastly  whisper.  "It  would  take  me  years  to  make 
you  thoroughly  understand  the  situation,  and  I  shall  not 
undertake  it.  You  must  simply  abide  by  my  judgment. 
If  there  were  any  other  way  I  would  take  it,  but  there 
is  not." 

"Not  dead — not  dead!  How  strange  it  seems!"  Crof- 
ton  said.  "My  son  and  yours!  Oh,  I've  always  wanted 
a  son,  Lydia,  even  in  my  vilest  days  abroad,  and  somehow 
in  my  fancy  I've  always  pictured  you  as  his  mother,  and 
now  that  we  have  one  in  reality  he  is  lost  to  me.  lam 
not  even  to  see  him — is  that  it,  darling?  My  God,  is 
that  it?" 

"Yes,  that  seems  best  to  me,  Carter.  Ever  since  I 
have  witnessed  the  change  for  good  in  you  I've  been 
afraid  that  your  very  better  self  would  be  his  undoing 
and  mine.  You'd  love  him — you  couldn't  help  it — every 
body  loves  him.  You'd  betray  our  secret.  He  is — he  is 
so,  so —  But  I  can't  tell  you  about  him." 

"You  can't?"  he  panted.  "You  can't  even  tell  me 
what  he  is  like?" 

"No,  for  as  it  is  now,  he  is  nothing  to  you.  He  is  a 
mere  mind-picture  of  your  own  which  holds  nothing  that 
would  actually  tie  you  to  him.  He  died  to  you,  Carter, 
even  before  he  was  born  to  me.  Don't  seek  to  know  him, 
dear,  but  leave  him  to  me.  I  love  you  almost  as  much  as 
I  love  him,  but  my  first  duty  is  to  him.  He  thinks  I  am 
his  legal  mother,  worthy  of  the  world's  respect.  I  could 
not  bear  to  have  him  know  the  truth.  You  see,  dear,  it 
would  be  placing  our  own  just  punishment  upon  his  young, 
innocent  shoulders.  It  would  blight  his  whole  life,  and 
we  would  be  doing  it  to  gratify  ourselves." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Crofton  groaned.  "I  am  lost,  Lydia. 
I  thought  I  was  reaching  the  earthly  gate,  at  least,  of 
the  Kingdom  of  God.  I  was  hoping  that  all  the  dark- 

357 


THE    INNER    LAW 

ness  of  my  past,  by  some  wonderful  spiritual  process, 
was  turning  to  light.  I  thought  I  was  becoming  truly 
unselfish,  but  now  I  see  that  I  want  you  and  my  son  more 
than  I  want  God." 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  said,  with  a  rising  sob,  "and 
yet  I  must  not  judge  you.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  for  I 
have  him  and  you  have  not.  I  have  deceived-  him,  but 
I  have  him." 

Crofton's  emotions  overpowered  him.  He  was  shaken 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  manly  effort  to  calm  the  swirling 
tide  in  his  breast  and  throat. 

"Oh,  if  there  were  any  other  way!"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm  and  pressing  it.  "But,  Carter  dear, 
there  really  is  not.  I  could  not  bear  the  look  of  sheer 
incredulity  which  would  fill  his  sweet,  trusting  eyes  if  I 
told  him  what  his  parents  have  been.  He  is  keenly  sensi 
tive,  almost  morbidly  so.  I  think  he  fancies  I  was  not 
quite  happy  with  you,  and  for  many  years  he  has  not 
spoken  of  his  father,  though  as  a  little  boy  he  was  con 
stantly  doing  so  and  telling  his  playmates,  with  a  child's 
pride,  that  his  father  was  in  heaven." 

"In  heaven?"  Crofton  echoed,  bitterly.  "His  father 
is  in  hell,  Lydia,  the  deepest  hell  known  to  the  lowest  of 
the  damned." 

"Can  you  suggest  any  other  course?"  she  asked  him, 
with  a  piteous  little  sob.  "I'd  do  anything  to  help  you, 
Carter,  but  I  see  no  other  way." 

"I  see  no  other  course,"  he  said — "no  other  course, 
Lydia.  If  I  should  suggest  anything  it  would  rise  from 
a  selfish  desire,  and  I  have  lost  the  right  to  consult  my 
own  desires." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  she  moaned,  softly, 
"and  that  is  to  bow  our  heads  humbly  and  submit.  We 
will  lose  all  earthly  rewards,  Carter,  but  I  am  sure  God  will 
give  us  something  in  their  place.  For  one  thing,  He  will 
give  our  son  his  rightful  happiness.  God  will  bless  us, 

358 


THE    INNER   LAW 

too,  Carter — not  here,  not  here,  but  Beyond.  I  feel  it,  I 
know  it.  We  are  suffering,  but  it  is  for  a  divine  purpose. 
God  has  us  on  trial." 

"There  is  one  thing  you  will  let  me  do,  Lydia,"  he  be 
gan,  a  faint  hope  flaring  up  in  his  eyes.  "I  have  means, 
you  know — useless  means  which  I  am  giving  to  strangers. 
Won't  you  let  me — through  you — give  him  a  substantial 
part  of  the  inheritance  which  is  his  by  right?" 

"By  right?"  she  sighed;  and  he  saw  her  head  slowly 
shaking.  "Carter,  one's  duty  to  God  is  a  marvelously 
delicate  and  intricate  thing.  You  think  that  I  could  do 
that.  You  think  that  I,  after  all  these  long  years  of 
deception  before  my  son,  could  go  to  him  with  a  fresh  lie 
on  my  tongue  and  face,  but  I  couldn't,  Carter — I  simply 
couldn't;  and  why,  why,  oh,  why?  you  will  ask.  It 
seems  to  me  a  thousand  reasons  fall  from  God's  spirit- 
sky  and  pack  upon  my  feeble  utterance.  First,  I've 
taught  my  boy  to  hate  rank  and  distinction,  money  and 
the  folly  it  buys.  Thinking  his  blighted  life  would  hold 
nothing  but  toil  and  poverty,  I  have  filled  him  with  the 
sublime  idea  of  the  equality  of  all  men.  I  taught  him  to 
rely  wholly  on  himself,  and  to  give  his  all  freely  to  every 
needy  soul.  Another  reason  is  this:  I  have  put  myself 
and  him  in  God's  care,  believing  that  we  shall  have  need 
for  no  actually  good  thing.  If  I  were  to  lean  upon  your 
fortune — if  I  were  to  fill  my  hands  with  the  coin  your 
father  accumulated  and  take  it  to  my  son  with  some  adroit 
lie  as  to  how  I  came  by  it,  his  open  soul  would  sense  the 
cringing  shame  of  mine  and  stand  back  in  amazement. 
That  or— or  the  other  thing:' 

"What  other  thing?"  Crofton  groped,  like  a  darker 
soul  led  somewhither  by  a  lighter  one. 

"He — might — want  it — might  actually  learn  to  love 
it!"  The  words  fell,  one  by  one,  like  bits  of  metal  on 
stone.  "He  might  fill  his  young  soul  with  the  subtle 
poison  and  fall,  Carter,  as  his  father  fell,  as  many  others 

359 


THE    INNER    LAW 

have  fallen.  No,  no,  dear,  he  is  best  as  he  is.  My  long 
prayer  is  being  answered.  God  has  him  in  His  care. 
You  could  never  understand  without  knowing  him,  as 
I  do,  and  you  must  not  know  him — that  is  settled  once 
for  all,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  that  is  settled."  Crofton  stared  like  a  man  en 
tranced  by  his  own  doom.  "And  I  need  not  ask  the 
name  he  bears,  even  the  one  that  you  bear?" 

"What  is  the  use?"  she  sighed.  "No  good  could  come 
of  it.  Carter,  we  must  not  meet  again,  ever  again.  I 
feel  it,  I  know  it." 

"Not  meet  again?"  he  muttered;   "never  again?" 

"Never,"  she  said,  firmly.  "This  interview  is  destroy 
ing  my  courage,  weakening  my  faith,  filling  me  with  im 
possible  desires.  I  am  lonely,  and  know  you  are,  too; 
but  we  are  not  for  each  other.  God  Himself  has  decreed 
it  otherwise.  This  is  our  test — our  supreme  test — the 
last  obstacle  to  be  surmounted  by  our  tired  feet  on  this 
plane  of  life." 

He  found  himself  unable  to  formulate  any  logical  op^ 
position  to  her  ultimatum.  They  rose  and  walked  slowly 
back  toward  the  entrance  of  the  Park.  Near  the  spot 
where  they  had  first  sat  together  she  paused  and  gave 
him  her  hand.  He  thought  that  her  face  wore  the  holy, 
consecrated  look  of  a  nun  under  the  soft,  mystic  glow  of 
complete  renunciation. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  simply,  and  she  turned  and  left 
him. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HPHE  next  morning  Crofton  found  in  his  mail  a  letter 
1  directed  in  his  care  to  Joseph  Allen.  It  was  from  the 
magazine  to  which  he  had  sent  his  young  friend's  poem. 
Had  it  been  his  own  first  offering  to  a  periodical,  Crofton 
could  not  have  felt  more  interested.  Did  the  thick  en 
velope,  in  addition  to  an  editorial  note  or  a  printed 
rejection,  contain  the  one-page  manuscript  or  a  check? 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  decide,  though  he  anxiously 
tested  its  weight,  felt  its  thickness,  and  held  it  up  to  the 
light.  He  would  not,  of  course,  take  the  liberty  of  open 
ing  the  letter,  so  he  decided  to  go  to  the  boy's  camp  at 
once.  He  was  now  possessed  with  misgivings  for  which 
he  could  hardly  account.  He  had  had  strong  faith  in 
the  poem,  but  now,  under  his  intense  desire  to  have  his 
protege  succeed,  the  warmth  of  his  former  confidence 
was  cooling.  This  was  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  fear  of  the 
great  disappointment  which  a  declination  of  the  poem 
would  bring  to  the  sensitive,  modest  young  writer. 

Reaching  the  tent,  he  looked  in.  Socrates  sat  on  one 
of  the  cots,  a  writing-pad  on  his  knee,  a  pencil  in  his 
slender,  sun-browned  fingers. 

"Caught  you  at  it?"  Crofton  jested.  "I  am  sorry  to 
disturb  your  muse." 

In  a  swift  glance  the  youth  studied  his  friend's  face. 
He  put  down  the  pad  quickly.  He  was  quite  grave, 
quite  agitated. 

"I  knew  you  were  coming,"  he  faltered.  "I  knew 
exactly  when  you  left  home.  I  know  more  than  that,  too. 
I  know  now  that  you've  heard  from  that  editor." 

361 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"Yes,  I  have  a  letter  for  you."  Crofton  drew  it  out 
and  extended  it. 

"And  you  did  not  open  it?"  the  youth  asked.  "Why 
didn't  you?" 

"Because  it  is  addressed  to  you  personally." 

"Oh!  and  not  because — because  you  suspected  the 
rejection  it  contains?" 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  it  contains,"  Crof 
ton  answered.  "There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  bring 
it  to  you  at  once." 

Socrates  held  the  envelope  in  limp  fingers.  Pale 
splotches  came  into  his  cheeks  and  spread.  He  made  no 
effort  to  open  the  communication.  Presently,  to  the  sur 
prise  of  his  companion,  he  laid  it  on  the  little  stand  beside 
his  cot,  rose  abruptly,  and  left  the  tent.  Crofton  heard 
Jimmy  call  out  to  him,  playfully,  from  one  of  the  other 
tents,  and  Socrates  answered  in  a  strange,  forced  tone: 
"All  right.  Ill  come  after  a  while.  I  can't  now — I'm 
busy." 

But  he  wasn't  busy,  as  Crofton  noted,  for  he  was 
standing  still  and  erect  by  the  smoldering  camp-fire, 
his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  sweater,  staring  out  over 
the  water.  Crofton  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then 
went  and  joined  him. 

"I  think  I  understand  you,"  he  said,  sympathetically. 
"You  are  dreading  disappointment?" 

The  boy  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  expression  of 
his  handsome  face  was  unreadable  in  its  profound  agita 
tion. 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  he  said.  "Oh,  I've  waited  and 
waited  for  it.  I've  prayed.  I've  tried  to  believe  that 
faith  in  it — my  faith — would  make  it  go.  And  when 
doubts  would  rise  I  would  try  to  kill  them  as  dangerous 
psychic  enemies  to  my  poetic  child.  But  now  the — the 
actual  verdict  has  come.  It  lies  there  and  I'm  afraid  of 
it— I'm  afraid  of  it." 

362 


THE    INNER   LAW 

"But  you  ought  not  to  be."  Crofton  knew  he  was 
uttering  an  empty  platitude.  "You  might  as  well  know 
the  outcome  and  be  done  with  it." 

Socrates  bent  down  and  added  some  sticks  to  the  fire 
and  mechanically  fanned  the  underlying  embers  with  his 
cap.  "Oh,  I  know  that,"  he  said,  presently.  "I  know 
it  is  weak  and  silly  of  me.  I  have  a  streak  of  superstition 
in  me,  after  all.  Small  things  don't  affect  me,  but  big 
ones  like  this  take  me  by  the  throat  and  fairly  throttle 
me.  You  may  not  realize  it,  but  my  life  hangs  on  this — 
my  very  life.  I  would  not  have  risked  it  for  years  if 
you  had  not  advised  it.  Do  you — oh,  do  you  feel  as — 
as  confident  now  as  you  did  when  you  sent  the  poem 
away?" 

Crofton  avoided  the  dumb  stare  of  the  suffering  eyes. 
"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  evasively,  "but  that  I  am  some 
what  influenced  by  your  present  fears  and  anxiety.  It  is 
natural  for  one  to  be  so.  In  my  most  unprejudiced  mo 
ment,  however,  I  decided  that  your  poem  was  great,  and 
I  must  still  stick  to  that  opinion.  If  this  particular  editor 
should  not  care  for  it  you  must  not  lose  hope,  but  must 
try  elsewhere." 

"Ah,  you  say  'if  now,"  Socrates  sighed.  "You  did 
not  talk  that  way  when  you  sent  it  off.  I  think  I  am  in 
for  disappointment,  and  I've  got  to  meet  it.  I  have  had 
too  many  licks  in  my  life  to  win  this  one  thing  for  which 
I'd  give  my  soul.  I  want  it  for  the  joy  and  pride  it  would 
afford  my  mother.  I  want  it  for  your  sake,  after  you  have 
tried  to  help  me.  Well,  well,  I  must  see  what  he  says. 
I  am  gaining  nothing  by  this." 

He  turned  into  the  tent.  Crofton  saw  him  unfasten 
the  curtains  and  let  them  drop  down.  There  was  a  pause, 
then  Crofton  heard  the  tearing  and  rustling  of  paper, 
after  which  silence  fell. 

Jimmy  came  along  with  a  pail  of  water  from  the  spring. 
"Where  is  Soc?"  he  asked,  carelessly. 

363 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Crofton  nodded  toward  the  tent.  "He's  busy  just 
now,"  he  said  in  a  significant  tone.  "Don't  disturb  him, 
please." 

"Ah,  I  see — writing  a  pome,  eh?  He's  a  nut — bug 
house  for  him."  And  Jimmy  trudged  on,  playfully 
shouting  to  some  men  who  were  beaching  a  boat  contain 
ing  a  laughing  party  of  girls  in  bathing-suits. 

Presently  the  curtains  of  the  tent  parted  and  Socrates 
came  out.  His  face  was  ablaze,  his  eyes  shone  with  the 
suppressed  light  of  ecstasy.  In  his  hand  he  held  the 
closed  letter. 

"Guess,"  he  said,  a  catch  in  his  voice — "guess  what  it 
says." 

"I  don't  have  to  guess,"  Crofton  answered,  his  heart 
leaping  and  pounding  as  he  spoke.  "I  know.  I  can 
see  it  in  your  face." 

Socrates  said  nothing.  He  took  a  full  breath,  expanding 
his  chest,  and  then  throwing  himself  upon  his  back  on 
the  sand,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  He  lay 
still  for  several  minutes,  and  then  drew  himself  up  to  a 
sitting  posture.  "I  can't  believe  it  yet,"  he  laughed. 
"I'm  afraid  I'll  wake.  I'm  dreaming — dreaming  of  the 
impossible!  How  can  the  man  mean  it?  He  says — he 
actually  says  he  has  not  read  anything  in  recent  litera 
ture  deeper  or  more  beautifully  expressed.  He  has  not 
only  taken  it,  but  he  has  sent  me  a  check  for  fifty  dollars, 
and  he  wants  more  of  my  work;  he  actually  asks  for  more 
at  once !  He  says  that  you  made  such  a  good  selection  that 
he  hopes  you  will  look  through  my  manuscripts  and  send 
him  four  or  five  poems  for  a  special  philosophical  issue. 
Read,  read  what  he  says!" 

Fairly  transported  by  delight,  Crofton  read  the  letter 
and  looked  at  the  check. 

"You  deserve  it,"  he  said.  "You  are  simply  getting 
your  just  dues,  that  is  all.  This  is  your  opportunity,  and 
you  must  act  on  it.  Such  a  chance  seldom  comes  to  a 

364 


THE   INNER   LAW 

young  writer.  This  editor  will  make  you  famous.  He 
is  a  noted  critic.  He  believes  in  your  genius,  and  his 
magazine  has  an  enormous  circulation  among  a  high  class 
of  readers." 

Without  another  word  Socrates  rose  and  went  down 
the  beach  to  where  Jimmy  stood  mending  his  crab-nets. 
He  stood  there  several  minutes,  and  then  came  back,  his 
face  still  flushed,  his  step  light. 

"Did  you  tell  him?"  Crofton  asked. 

"Oh  no,"  Socrates  answered.  "I  shall  not  tell  any  of 
them  yet — not  yet.  It  is  too  sacred.  They  wouldn't 
understand,  anyway.  They  would  think  only  of  the 
money.  They  laugh  at  me  for  writing.  But  I  shall  tell 
her.  She  will  understand.  She  will  be  very  happy,  too." 

"You  mean  your  mother?"  Crofton  asked. 

"Yes,  who  else?  I  have  no  one  else  but  her — and  you, 
for  you  have  done  this,  and  I  am  going  to  beg  you  to  do 
something  else.  I  hesitate  to  do  it,  but  I  am  afraid  to 
act  on  my  own  judgment  of  my  work." 

"I  should  be  glad  to  do  anything  you  wish,"  Crofton 
said.  "What  is  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  look  through  my  manuscripts  again, 
help  me  improve  them,  and  make  the  selections  the  editor 
wishes — that  is,  if — " 

"Oh,  I  want  to  do  that  and  right  away — to-day,  if 
you  will  let  me." 

"Are  you  sure  it  won't  bore  you?" 

"Bore  me?  How  could  it?  My  boy,  I'd  give  a  year's 
time  to  it  if  it  required  that  to  help  you.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  delighted  I  am  to  assist  you.  Get  the  manuscripts 
now." 

With  a  light  step  Socrates  went  to  his  tent  and  came 
out  with  his  portfolio.  "Let's  go  up  among  the  rocks 
and  trees,"  he  suggested,  his  face  beaming.  "Oh,  I'm  in 
heaven  this  morning !  I  want  to  get  down  on  the  earth  and 
hug  it  in  my  arms.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  clasp  its  whole, 

365 


THE    INNER   LAW 

round,  delicious  bulk,  and  squeeze  it  till  it  shrinks  to 
nothingness.  I  feel — I  feel  as  I  think  God  must  feel." 

They  climbed  the  rugged  hillside  to  the  spot  where  Crof- 
ton  had  gone  that  day  to  take  his  life. 

"Do  you  remember?"  the  boy  laughed,  joyously,  "I 
first  saw  you  there  behind  the  vines  and  bushes.  I  knew 
then — I  felt  then  that  I  was  going  to  like  you.  There 
was  something  sad  and  lonely  in  your  eyes  that  day. 
Something  told  me  we  were  alike  in  some  things  and  des 
tined  to  lean  on  each  other  as  true  friends.  I  am  doing 
the  leaning  so  far" — he  laughed  again — "but  the  time 
may  come  when  I  may  help  you,  also.  I'd  love  to — I'd 
love  to.  I'm  so  much  younger  that  you  may  need  me 
later,  if  not  now.  Then  I  will  try  to  repay  you.  You 
say  you  have  no  family  ties.  I  am  almost  glad  of  that. 
Your  coming  here  to  the  camp  has  been  the  greatest  joy 
of  my  life,  and  just  think  what  you  have  done  and  are 
doing!" 

"It  is  not  I,  but  your  marvelous  work,"  Crofton  in 
sisted,  seating  himself  on  a  flat  boulder  and  opening  the 
portfolio.  "You  would  have  won  sooner  or  later,  in  any 
case." 

For  hours  that  day,  with  their  heads  close  together, 
they  read  the  poems  and  discussed  the  various  qualities 
they  contained.  Crofton  suggested  certain  improve 
ments  in  form  and  wording  which  the  poet  readily  agreed 
to.  The  sun  was  going  down  when  the  task  was  com 
pleted,  and  with  the  selected  poems  in  his  pocket  Crofton 
started  back  to  the  city. 

"I'll  have  them  neatly  typewritten  and  send  them  in 
the  morning,"  he  said,  "and  you?  What  are  you  going 
to  do?  I  fancy  you  won't  sleep  much  to-night.  You 
see,  I  know.  I  was  that  way  once  myself,  long,  long  ago." 

"I  don't  expect  to  close  my  eyes,"  was  the  laughing 
retort.  "Sleep  should  be  only  for  the  unhappy.  I  don't 
feel  as  if  I  shall  ever  want  to  sleep  again.  I  am  going 

366 


THE   INNER   LAW 

to  the  city  to-morrow.  I  am  going  to  put  on  my  best 
suit  and  take  my  mother  out  to  dinner.  I  won't  mention 
this  at  first.  Then,  suddenly,  I'll  astound  her.  I'm 
going  to  write  my  name  on  the  back  of  that  check, 
hand  it  to  her,  and  watch  her  face.  She  needs  several 
things  which  she  can't  buy  because  she  gives  away  her 
earnings,  and  she  can  get  something  with  it.  I  want  the 
first  fruit  of  my  brain  to  go  to  her  who  gave  me  my 
brain  and  taught  me  all  I  know." 

"It  is  fine  of  you  to  think  of  her  first/'  Crofton  said. 
"She  will  certainly  be  proud  of  you.  I  can  imagine 
nothing  which  would  please  a  parent  more  than  to  have 
a  son  meet  just  such  success  as  has  come  to  you." 

Socrates  blithely  accompanied  him  down  the  path  to 
the  landing,  often  slipping  on  ahead  like  a  happy  child, 
and  stood  on  the  pier  until  he  was  seated  in  the  boat. 
As  he  was  being  borne  out  upon  the  water  Crofton  looked 
back  and  saw  him  gazing  after  him.  Socrates  waved  his 
cap  and  tossed  it  in  the  air.  Crofton  responded  by  waving 
his  handkerchief.  Then  a  sudden  thought  came  to  the 
lonely  man,  bringing  with  it  a  brooding  sense  of  far- 
reaching  despair.  He  thought  of  his  own  son,  whom  he 
was  never  to  see,  and  the  brave  mother  of  that  son  from 
whom  he  had  parted  for  ever.  His  spirits  sank  lower,  his 
lips  tightened  grimly  as  he  looked  at  the  red  sky -sea 
into  which  the  sun  was  sinking.  He  leaned  over  the  boat 
and  trailed  his  hand  in  the  cooling  water. 

"God  have  mercy  on  me!"  he  whispered.  "Have 
mercy,  have  mercy!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ONE  afternoon,  four  days  later,  Crofton  decided  to 
visit  the  camp  again.  He  had  something  of  impor 
tance  to  tell  his  protige  about  his  poems.  When  he 
reached  Dyckman  Street,  and  started  to  the  landing,  he 
noticed  that  it  was  very  cloudy  and  that  a  high  wind 
was  blowing  from  the  north,  and  when  he  was  in  sight  of 
the  river,  he  saw  that  the  water  was  very  rough.  Not 
a  boat  of  any  sort  was  in  view  save  the  little  ferry  launch, 
which  rocked  wildly  at  the  side  of  the  rising  and  falling 
float.  A  heavy  mist  sweeping  down  the  river  quite  ob 
scured  the  rugged  shore  opposite. 

The  brawny  boatman  stood  with  his  red  signal-flag  in 
his  hand,  a  dissatisfied  look  on  his  face. 

" Going  over?"  Crofton  asked. 

"I  don't  care  to,  but  I  have  to,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
agreed  to  cross  over  and  bring  a  man  back,  and  I  must 
keep  my  word." 

"The  water  is  rough,  then?"  Crofton  said. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  it  much  worse,"  was  the 
reply.  "I  can  make  it  all  right  with  this  boat,  but  it 
will  drink  up  plenty  of  gasoline.  Do  you  want  to  cross?" 

"Yes,"  Crofton  answered.  Somehow  the  very  risk  in 
volved  appealed  to  the  despondent  mood  which  he  had 
been  unable  to  conquer  ever  since  his  parting  with  Lydia. 

"Well,  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute.  Say,  that  is  a 
little  fool  there,"  pointing  to  a  Jewish  boy  of  slight  frame, 
sallow  complexion,  and  rather  short  stature,  who  was 
putting  a  camping  outfit — a  tent,  stools,  folded  cot,  and 

368 


THE   INNER   LAW 

cooking  utensils — into  a  small  and  shallow  rowboat. 
"He  says  he  is  going  to  row  across." 

"But  he  mustn't  try  it,"  Crofton  said. 

' '  Huh !  You  can '  t  advise  his  sort ! ' '  the  boatman  sniffed . 
"He  is  always  doing  that  sort  o*  thing.  I've  warned  him 
my  last  time.  He  will  go  to  the  bottom  like  a  rock  one 
of  these  days." 

Crofton  went  to  the  boy.  "You  mustn't  try  it  to-day, 
my  boy,"  he  said,  gently.  "It  is  terribly  rough.  It 
doesn't  look  so  bad  close  in,  but  the  waves  are  very  high 
farther  out.  A  boat  like  yours  couldn't  live  in  a  squall 
like  this." 

The  pinched  features  of  the  boy  produced  a  slow  smile, 
and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  can  make  it,  all  right," 
he  said.  "The  fellows  are  expecting  me  over  there. 
They  won't  have  any  shelter  to-night  if  I  don't  get  this 
tent  and  other  stuff  over." 

"Well,  take  the  ferry,"  Crofton  suggested. 

The  boy  shook  his  bare,  tousled  head.  "I  go  higher 
up  than  the  ferry  does,"  he  said.  "Leave  me  alone,  boss, 
I  know  what  I'm  about.  That  guy  there  is  just  talking 
because  he  wants  everybody  to  cross  with  him.  I  can 
handle  this  boat,  and  I  can  swim  some." 

He  got  into  his  boat,  sat  down,  and  jerked  his  short, 
clumsy  oars  into  the  worn  locks.  He  thrust  out  his  bare 
feet  and  made  a  confident  side  stroke  which  swerved  the 
boat  from  the  float.  There  was  nothing  for  Crofton  to 
do  but  to  allow  him  to  have  his  way.  The  ferryman 
had  turned  aside  to  see  if  any  other  passengers  were 
in  sight,  and  now  came  back,  his  eyes  on  the  tossing 
craft. 

"Rotten  little  fool !"  Crofton  heard  him  mutter.  " That 
damned  tub  of  his  isn't  fit  for  anything  but  a  mill-pond 
or  a  park  lake.  Say,  there!"  loudly  calling  against  the 
wind.  "Don't  be  a  blooming  idiot — you  kid!  I  know 
what  I  am  talking  about.  You  can't  pull  against  that 

24  369 


THE   INNER   LAW 

tide  and  wind — six  of  your  sort  couldn't.  Your  fool 
soup-plate  will  be  full  of  water  in  ten  minutes." 

''Bah!  Come  off!"  the  boy  shouted  back,  derisively. 
"I  don't  need  a  cranky  old  gasoline-engine  to  pull  me 
along  like  you  do." 

"  He  may  go  to  hell,  for  all  I  care,"  the  ferryman  snorted. 
11  There  will  be  people  around  here  that  will  blame  me 
for  letting  him  go  out,  as  if  I  can  'tend  to  my  work  and 
run  a  kindergarten  reformatory.  Two  boys  about  his 
size  was  drowned  out  there  last  Sunday — fell  out  of  a 
canoe  with  a  top-heavy  sail  to  it  and  dragged  each  other 
down.  Come  ahead  if  you  are  going." 

Crofton  got  into  the  boat.  "Sit  back  in  the  stern," 
the  man  sharply  ordered  as  he  took  the  wheel.  "You 
will  get  wet  with  spray  in  front,  if  you  are  not  washed 
clean  overboard." 

After  he  had  been  seated  and  the  boat  was  curving  out 
into  the  foaming  river,  Crofton  looked  for  the  boy  in  the 
boat.  The  mist  was  thickening,  and  all  but  obscured 
the  tiny  craft  and  its  inmate.  Presently  he  saw  them 
well  out  in  the  river.  The  boat  was  rising  and  fall 
ing  with  the  waves,  now  in  sight,  now  out  of  sight.  The 
little  oarsman  had  his  thin  back  and  the  sharp  point  of 
his  boat  to  the  wind,  and  was  pluckily  pulling  against 
the  tide. 

"He  is  in  danger,"  Crofton  remarked  to  the  ferry 
man. 

"You  said  it!"  was  the  affirmative  answer.  "Now  we 
are  hitting  it  ourselves.  The  wind  is  rising." 

Crofton  started  to  stand  up  to  look  for  the  boy,  but 
the  boatman  cried  out:  "Don't  stand  up!  Sit  where 
you  are!  You  tip  the  boat!" 

Crofton  apologized  and  resumed  his  seat,  his  anxious 
eyes  scanning  the  mist-swept  billows.  At  times  he  saw, 
like  a  dark  spot  on  a  curtain  of  gray,  the  other  boat  and 
its  occupant,  and  then  they  were  lost  from  sight  between 


THE   INNER   LAW 

the  white-capped  hills  of  water  or  in  the  swirling  mist. 
Presently  he  could  see  them  no  more. 

"Do  you  think  that  boy  has  gone  down?"  he  asked  the 
man  at  the  wheel. 

With  a  scowl  on  his  heavy-cheeked  face,  the  man  hur 
riedly  scanned  the  water.  " I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "It 
wouldn't  surprise  me.  Even  you  and  I  have  no  cinch, 
I  tell  you.  It  is  worse  than  I  thought  it  was.  It  is  an 
awful  squall.  I  hope  my  engine  won't  break  down. 
Look  out!"  A  wave  dashed  against  the  side  of  the  boat 
and  drenched  them  to  the  skin.  The  boat  leaned  over, 
rose  like  a  bit  of  chaff  in  a  wind,  and  fell  with  a  thump 
and  a  groan  in  all  its  timbers.  The  boatman  swore  under 
his  breath.  "Can  you  swim?"  he  asked,  doggedly. 

"Pretty  well,"  Crofton  answered.  "Is  it  as  bad  as 
that?" 

"You  never  can  tell,"  the  man  muttered,  bending  down 
to  examine  his  clicking  engine.  "I'm  all  right  myself, 
but  I  never  know  about  a  passenger.  The  life-preservers 
are  under  the  seat.  I'm  only  telling  you  that  as  a  matter 
of  caution.  Say,  if  I  was  in  your  place  I'd  shuck  off  my 
coat  and  shoes.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  we  are  in  pretty 
bad.  The  wind  is  rising,  and  this  boat  is  none  too  steady. 
I'm  all  right,  but  I  don't  know  about  you." 

"Don't  worry  over  me."  Crofton  refused  to  act  on 
his  advice.  "What  do  you  think  about  that  boy?" 

"Damn  the  boy!"  the  man  grunted.  "Look  out  for 
yourself,  mister.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  my  engine. 
If  she  stopped,  and  the  right  sort  of  wave  struck  us,  we 
might  go  over.  Take  off  your  coat  and  shoes.  You 
couldn't  swim  ten  feet  in  a  strait-jacket  like  that  with 
your  shoes  full  of  water." 

Reluctantly  Crofton  obeyed.  It  was  strange,  after  all, 
that  he  was  really  more  concerned  about  the  boy  than  he 
was  about  himself.  As  he  kicked  off  his  shoes  and  doffed 
his  coat  he  peered  into  the  swirling  mist  again.  His  heart 


THE   INNER   LAW 

bounded,  for  he  thought  he  saw,  in  a  wind-blown  rift 
in  the  curtain  of  moisture,  the  boat  with  the  boy  still  in 
it.  With  a  throb  of  elation  he  announced  his  discovery 
to  his  companion. 

"He  hasn't  struck  the  worst  of  it  yet,"  was  the  curt 
reply.  "He  is  not  as  far  out  as  we  are,  but  he  will  be 
soon.  I  wouldn't  give  a  snap  for  his  chancel" 

Five  minutes  passed.  They  could  not  see  the  shore 
toward  which  the  launch  was  sturdily  forging  its  way. 
Crofton  spoke  to  the  boatman  several  times,  but  received 
no  reply. 

The  man's  troubled  face  explained  his  silence.  Present 
ly  he  drew  a  deep  breath.  ' '  We  are  through  the  worst  of  it 
now,  thank  God!"  he  said.  "We  are  all  right,  I  guess. 
My  Lord !  mister,  I  didn't  want  to  scare  you,  but  I  thought 
we  were  up  against  it." 

In  front  of  them  was  the  long  pier.  The  boat  was 
headed  for  the  sheltered  cove  it  afforded  on  the  leeward 
side.  They  landed  safely. 

"Going  back  soon?"  Crofton  asked,  as  he  stepped 
ashore. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  the  man  smiled  grimly;  "not  until 
this  squall  is  over.  I'll  lie  right  here." 

No  one  was  in  sight  as  Crofton  took  the  path  leading 
to  the  camp,  and  he  met  no  one.  It  was  beginning  to 
rain,  and  he  walked  hurriedly  to  escape  being  drenched. 
Reaching  the  camp,  he  found  it  in  a  state  of  great  excite 
ment.  Some  of  the  tents  nearest  the  water's  edge  were 
being  flooded  by  the  waves,  and  Socrates,  Jimmy,  and 
half  a  dozen  other  men  were  busy  trying  to  construct  a 
breakwater  of  stones  and  logs.  Crofton  at  once  set  to 
work  helping  them. 

"It  is  grand,  isn't  it?"  Socrates  said,  as  he  greeted  his 
friend.  "It  is  like  a  storm  at  sea.  You  can't  go  back 
to-night.  You  will  have  to  bunk  with  me." 

"It  lopks  like  it,"  Crofton  said,  thrilled  by  the  scene, 

372 


THE   INNER   LAW 

the   bustling   activity  of   the   others,  and  his  part  in 
it  all. 

Suddenly  Jimmy  called  attention  to  a  sound  he  had 
heard  from  the  water. 

"That  is  a  yell  for  help,  boys!"  he  cried,  excitedly. 
"It  is!  It  is!" 

The  workers  paused,  stood  still,  and  listened.  A  faint 
cry  was  borne  by  the  wind  from  the  mist  over  the  river. 
It  was  a  piteous,  short-lived  scream  of  terror  from  a  young 
throat. 

Hurriedly  Crofton  told  them  of  the  boy  and  his  boat. 

"That's  him!"  Jimmy  cried.     "Poor  kid!   poor  kid!" 

The  workers  at  the  breakwater  and  the  women  and 
children  ran  up  the  beach  toward  the  direction  from  which 
the  sound  came.  It  was  heard  again  and  again.  So 
great  was  Crofton's  excitement  that  he  took  no  thought 
of  Socrates.  Suddenly,  however,  he  heard  Jimmy  fairly 
screaming  as  he  stood  drenched  to  the  waist  on  the  sand, 
and,  looking  back,  he  saw  Socrates  pushing  a  frail  green 
canoe  into  the  water  and  climbing  into  it. 

"My  God!  look  at  the  fool!"  Jimmy  cried.  "Don't 
do  it,  Soc!  What  is  the  use?  Don't  throw  your  life 
away!" 

But  the  canoe,  like  a  slender  nutshell,  was  shooting 
out  into  the  flood,  forced  by  the  double  paddle  of  its 
muscular  occupant.  Crofton  raised  his  voice  in  protest, 
but  the  youth  did  not  even  look  in  his  direction.  On  he 
went,  swaying  back  and  forward,  rising  and  falling  with 
the  surf. 

"The  last  of  him!"  Jimmy  groaned.  "He  doesn't  care 
for  his  life.  I've  heard  him  say  he  wished  he  could  die 
saving  somebody.  He's  the  cream  of  the  earth — that 
guy  is !  Oh,  my  God !  my  God !  Holy  Mother  Mary,  save 
him!"  It  was  a  prayer  from  a  fervent  Catholic,  and 
Jimmy  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  his  lips  mutely 
moving. 

373 


THE    INNER   LAW 

Dumb  and  terrified,  Crofton  stood  with  the  others  and 
watched  Socrates  vanishing  in  the  mist.  Again  the  child 
like  cry  was  heard. 

"The  boy  must  be  holding  to  his  boat,"  a  man  said. 
"He  couldn't  swim  in  water  like  that.  Hush!  That's 
Socrates'  voice!" 

"Hold  tight!"  they  heard  him  shouting,  like  a  wind- 
torn  echo  of  the  other  voice.  "Keep  your  nerve,  kid! 
I'm  coming.  I'm — " 

What  had  happened?  What  had  stilled  the  familiar 
voice?  The  terrified  cry  of  the  boy  was  heard  again,  but 
there  was  no  reply. 

"My  God!  Socrates  is  over!"  Jimmy  moaned.  "Now 
they  will  both  go  down!" 

The  mist  was  lifting  slightly.  The  watchers  saw  two 
blurred  spots  that  looked  like  upturned  boats  thirty  or 
forty  yards  apart,  but  whether  human  beings  were  cling 
ing  to  them  could  not  be  seen.  The  angry  tide  was 
rapidly  bearing  them  down-stream  and  farther  from  the 
shore. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  a  sheer  spasm  of  despair  Crofton  told  himself  that 
something  must  be  done,  but  he  did  not  know  what. 
Suddenly  he  bethought  himself  of  the  ferryboat  he  had 
just  left,  and  without  waiting  to  explain  his  intentions 
to  the  others,  he  dashed  into  the  path  and  started 
toward  the  pier.  It  was  fully  half  a  mile  over  rough 
ground,  but  he  tore  along  the  way  at  the  top  of  his  speed. 
Fortunately  he  found  the  boatman  at  his  launch.  Breath 
lessly  he  explained  the  situation. 

' '  Quick ! "  he  cried .     ' '  Your  boat !    Any  price  you  ask ! ' ' 

"You  don't  mean  Socrates?  He's  a  friend  of  mine!" 
the  man  cried. 

"I  do.  Quick!"  Crofton  was  already  in  the  boat. 
"They  are  drifting  with  the  tide,  alive  or  dead.  Hurry!" 

"All  right,  I'm  your  man.  I  don't  want  your  money. 
That  young  guy  is  my  friend,"  the  boatman  said  as  he 
sprang  into  the  launch.  "Which  way?" 

"Out  toward  the  middle  and  down-stream  as  fast  as 
you  can  go!"  Crofton  cried. 

The  boat  swung  round  and  shot  out  into  the  mad  tor 
rent.  Crofton  strained  his  eyes,  but  could  see  nothing 
on  the  surface  of  the  water. 

"On,  on !"  he  kept  crying.  "They  must  be  there  some 
where!" 

"If  anybody  can  keep  afloat,  Socrates  can,"  said  the 
boatman;  "but  it  wouldn't  be  in  a  canoe;  he  has  lost  that 
already  unless  he  is  riding  it." 

Several  minutes  passed.  Nothing  could  be  seen  but 

375 


THE    INNER   LAW 

foaming  water  below,  thickening  mist  around  them,  and 
lowering  clouds  above.  The  wind  whistled  by;  the 
spray  showered  upon  them.  Suddenly  Crofton  called 
attention  to  a  low,  flat  object  ahead,  and  the  boatman 
mutely  steered  toward  it.  It  was  the  boy's  upturned  boat. 

"That's  the  danged  tub!"  the  boatman  said,  grimly. 
"Now  their  only  chance  is  the  canoe  or  swimming,  and 
God  knows  that  is  slim  enough!" 

They  passed  the  boat  and  sped  onward,  straining  their 
eyes  through  the  mist.  The  vague  outlines  of  Fort  Wash 
ington  Point  appeared  on  the  left  like  the  hulk  of  a  great 
brown  steamer,  and  immediately  vanished.  Presently 
Crofton  descried  a  dark  object  just  ahead  of  them.  Was 
it  a  log,  beam,  barrel,  or  box,  or  was  it  an  upturned 
canoe?  It  was  impossible  to  tell  yet,  but  the  launch,  like 
a  bucking  horse,  was  lunging  toward  it. 

"I  see  a  canoe!"  Crofton  shouted.  "And  two  heads!" 
he  added,  pointing.  "There  they  are!" 

"Are  you  sure?"  the  boatman  asked. 

"Sure!    Hurry!    They  are  giving  out!" 

A  little  farther  and  Crofton  plainly  saw  Socrates  with 
one  arm  locked  over  the  side  of  the  canoe,  the  other  around 
the  boy,  whose  dripping  head  lay  limply  on  his  shoulder. 

"Hold  tight!"  Crofton  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
"You  are  safe  now." 

He  saw  Socrates'  lips  move,  but  no  sound  issued.  He 
was  ghastly  pale,  and  the  eyes  of  his  human  burden  were 
closed,  the  mouth  open. 

As  the  launch  glided  close  to  the  canoe  Socrates  let 
go  of  it,  and  with  one  hand  swam  toward  his  rescuers. 
The  next  moment  Crofton  had  him  by  the  wrist. 

"Take  him  in,  quick!"  Socrates  said,  hoarsely,  as  he 
tried  to  lift  the  boy  upward.  "I'm  afraid  he  is  dying!" 

The  boatman  leaned  down  and  drew  the  dripping  lad 
from  the  water,  while  Crofton  aided  Socrates  to  climb 
aboard.  The  Jewish  boy  was  laid  on  the  bottom  of 

376 


THE    INNER    LAW 

the  boat,  and  Socrates  reeled  to  a  seat  on  the  side.  He 
showed  that  he  had  not  lost  his  presence  of  mind,  for  he 
pointed  to  the  nearest  boat-house,  dimly  outlined  in  the 
mist. 

"There,  there!"  he  gasped.  "I'm  all  right,  but  he  is 
in  a  bad  fix.  Plucky,  plucky  little  kid!" 

Crofton  bent  down  and  felt  of  the  boy's  heart.  It  was 
still  beating,  though  faintly.  Thinking  that  he  had  swal 
lowed  water,  he  was  about  to  turn  him  over  when  Soc 
rates  stopped  him. 

"It  isn't  that!"  he  cried.  "He  is  worn  out.  I've 
never  seen  such  an  awful  fight  for  life  as  he  made.  It 
was  twenty  minutes  before  he  and  I  could  get  together, 
and  he  couldn't  hold  to  his  boat.  My  canoe  was  upside 
down.  I  was  afraid  to  let  go,  for  that  was  our  only 
chance.  Sometimes  he  would  be  almost  within  an 
arm's  length  of  me,  and  then  be  swept  yards  and  yards 
away." 

They  were  now  near  the  float  of  one  of  the  boat-houses. 
No  one  was  on  it,  and  the  door  of  the  house  was  closed 
to  exclude  the  blasts.  The  launch  slid  up  against  the 
float.  Crofton  took  the  boy  in  his  arms  and  got  out. 
Though  fairly  sinking  from  weakness,  Socrates  sprang  in 
advance  up  the  creaking  runway  and  opened  the  door. 
The  wife  of  the  man  who  kept  the  house  met  them.  She 
uttered  a  short,  surprised  scream,  and  then  commanded 
herself  sufficiently  to  lead  them  up  the  steps  to  her  apart 
ments  above,  where  a  fire  was  burning  in  a  cooking- 
range.  Hurriedly  she  showed  them  a  cot,  and  she  and 
Socrates  drew  it  near  the  fire.  Crofton  laid  the  boy  on 
it,  and  as  he  did  so  the  little  fellow  opened  his  eyes  and 
took  a  deep  breath. 

"Good!"  the  boatman  exclaimed.  "He's  coming  out 
all  right!" 

The  boy  stirred  and  tried  to  sit  up,  but  the  woman 
gently  pushed  him  back  on  the  pillow  she  had  taken  from 

377 


THE   INNER   LAW 

a  bed  behind  a  curtain.  "Don't  move  yet,  dearie,"  she 
said.  "I  want  to  give  you  a  nip  of  whisky.  It  will  do 
you  good." 

She  hurried  into  the  little  bar  below,  and  came  back 
with  a  glass  holding  the  liquor.  The  boy  drank  some  of 
it  and  then  waved  it  aside. 

"I  don't  like  it — it  goes  to  my  head,"  he  said,  and  then, 
with  an  appealing  glance  at  Socrates,  he  asked,  "Say, 
is  my  boat  lost?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  is,"  Socrates  answered.  "Never  mind 
that  now." 

"My  eld  man  will  beat  me,"  the  boy  began  to  whim 
per.  "He  didn't  know  I  had  the  boat  out.  He  bought 
it  for  me,  and  told  me  to  take  care  of  it.  And  the  things 
I  was  taking  to  the  fellors — they  are  gone,  too,  eh?  Oh, 
gee!  What  11  I  tell  'em?  They  saved  their  money  all 
winter  for  that  outfit — and  me — me,  I  did  it  when  you 
two  fellers  told  me  not  to  be  a  fool;  but  I  was — I  was, 
and  I  got  it  in  the  neck,  didn't  I?" 

He  was  beginning  to  cry  aloud,  his  little  fists  in  his 
eyes.  Crofton  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cot.  He  leaned 
down.  "Hush,"  he  whispered;  "don't  cry.  I'll  buy 
you  a  good  new  boat  at  once  and  replace  the  other 
things.  You  shall  have  them  early  in  the  morning,  and 
you  can  take  them  right  over." 

"Say,  whatcher  giving  me?  Are  you  kidding?"  the 
boy  demanded,  with  an  incredulous  stare  into  the  speaker's 
eyes,  which  he  swept  on  to  the  face  of  his  rescuer. 

"No,  I  meant  it,"  Crofton  said.  "Now  be  quiet  and 
rest." 

"Yes,  he  means  it,- kid."  Socrates  was  seated  in  an 
easy-chair  close  to  the  range,  drying  his  thin  trousers, 
shirt,  and  stockings.  He  was  still  shivering  and  some 
what  pale. 

The  woman  brought  him  a  cup  of  hot  tea.  "Drink  it, 
Socrates,"  she  said,  smiling.  "You  don't  remember  me. 

378 


THE   INNER    LAW 

I  am  Mrs.  Myers.     I  saw  you  here  with  some  boys  one 
Sunday,  and  heard  your  name." 

"I  remember,  Mrs.  Myers."  He  smiled  as  he  took  the 
tea  and  thanked  her. 

Crofton  was  struck  by  his  features,  which  his  Weakness 
and  pallor  were  rendering  more  distinct.  The  outlines 
and  a  certain  indefinable  expression  of  the  eyes  reminded 
him  of  his  brother  Henry  in  his  younger  days.  There 
was  a  vague  something,  too,  in  the  poise  of  the  body,  the 
way  the  cup  was  held,  the  genial  upward  smile  that  re 
called  his  cousin  Tom  during  their  college  days  when 
they  used  to  serve  tea  in  their  rooms. 

"You  must  let  me  keep  the  boy  awhile,"  the  woman 
said  to  Crofton.  "He  is  all  right  now,  but  he  must  rest. 
I'll  feed  him  and  keep  him  here  to-night.  In  fact,  I  have 
plenty  of  room  for  you  all  if  you  will  stay.  You  are  en 
tirely  welcome." 

Crofton  glanced  at  Socrates.  The  youth  was  smiling. 
"It  would  be  a  good  idea,"  he  said.  "It  is  too  rough  to 
cross  to-night,  and  we  could  go  right  over  in  the  morning. 
Our  friends  will  not  know  what  has  become  of  us." 

So  it  was  arranged.  The  ferryman  was  to  go  back  to 
his  work  as  soon  as  the  wind  fell,  and  he  promised  to 
report  to  the  camp.  Crofton  had  a  vast  sense  of  satis 
faction  in  not  being  separated  from  Socrates.  Mrs. 
Myers  showed  them  a  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
containing  a  wide  bed  and  other  furniture.  Lighting 
a  lamp  on  a  table,  she  left  them.  The  rain  was  beating 
fiercely  against  the  window-sashes,  which  rattled  in  their 
loose  frames,  and  the  wind  whistled  dolefully  under  the 
eaves  of  the  crudely  built  house.  From  the  river  came 
the  sound  of  the  fog-horn  of  a  creeping  tugboat. 

Presently  Mrs.  Myers  brought  a  most  tempting  sup 
per  on  a  tray,  and  put  it  on  the  table  in  the  room. 

"  How  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Myers !"  Socrates  said.  "  You 
are  treating  us  like  royal  princes." 

379 


THE   INNER   LAW 

" Pshaw!  It  is  nothing,"  she  answered,  beaming  on 
him  in  a  motherly  way.  "I  only  wish  I  could  do  more 
for  you  and  any  friend  of  yours.  Look  what  you  did  for 
that  poor  little  water-rat.  He's  been  telling  me  about  his 
mother,  and  how  she  worries  over  him  when  he  is  away. 
He  is  afraid  she  will  find  this  out."  Mrs.  Myers's  voice 
grew  unsteady.  "Think  of  the  sorrow  you've  saved  that 
poor  woman  from.  I  know,  I  know.  I  never  had  but 
one  little  boy,  and  he — he  was  drowned  when  he  was  only 
five.  He  fell  off  the  float  when  my  back  was  turned  one 
day,  and  I  did  not  know  it  till  I  saw  his  little  body  floating 
away.  You  are  welcome  any  time — any  time  you  are 
passing."  Turning  suddenly  she  left  the  room,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears,  her  breast  heaving. 

' '  Poor  woman ! ' '  Socrates  said,  softly.     ' '  Poor  woman !' ' 

The  two  friends  heartily  enjoyed  their  supper,  and  after 
it  was  finished,  the  storm  being  over,  they  went  to  the  ve 
randa  overlooking  the  river.  Suddenly,  when  they  were 
smoking  some  cigars  Crofton  had  provided,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  not  yet  told  his  companion  what  he 
had  to  say  in  regard  to  his  poems. 

"I  think  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  about?"  Soc 
rates  said,  suddenly.  "It  is  those  poems  you  took. 
Did  you  send  them?" 

"No;  I  took  them  down  in  person." 

"You  did?  You  say  you  did?"  Socrates  exclaimed  in 
surprise. 

"Yes,  and  I  am  glad  I  did,  for  I  was  never  better  re 
ceived  in  my  life.  The  editor  was  eager  to  talk  about 
you.  He  asked  many  questions.  He  and  his  associates 
read  the  poems  while  I  was  there  and  discussed  them. 
They  were  all  enthusiastic.  The  editor  accepted  them 
and—" 

"Accepted?  Are  you  sure?"  Socrates  broke  in,  ex 
citedly. 

"Absolutely.  A  check,  and  a  good  one,  will  be  sent  to 

380 


THE   INNER   LAW 

you  at  the  end  of  the  week.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard 
all  the  editor  said.  He  spoke  as  if  I  had  discovered 
your  genius,  but  I  told  him  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Nothing  to  do  with  it?"  Socrates  disputed.  "Why, 
you  did  it  all — absolutely  all.  I  would  never  have  sent 
him  anything  but  for  your  encouragement  and  advice. 
I'll  be  in  your  debt  always.  Not  only  for  those  things, 
but  for  something  else.  You  saved  my  life  to-day." 

"Oh  no!"  Crofton  protested.  "You'd  have  got  in  all 
right." 

"No,  I  couldn't  have  made  it,"  Socrates  declared.  "I 
was  losing  consciousness.  I  was  all  in.  My  arm  which 
held  the  canoe  was  numb  and  giving  way.  Every  wave 
wrenched  it  with  the  force  of  a  powerful  lever.  I  couldn't 
drop  the  boy.  He  spoke  to  me  just  before  he  fainted. 
He  is  an  honor  to  his  race.  He  said: 

' '  You'll  drown  if  you  hold  me.  Let  me  go.  What's 
the  use  of  both  of  us  going  under?'" 

"And  did  you  really  think  you  were  going  down?" 
Crofton  asked. 

"I  was  sure  of  it.  I  know  now  that  death  is  not  a  ter 
rible  thing  when  it  actually  comes  to  one.  It  may  sound 
like  boasting  for  me  to  say  so,  but  I  really  didn't  care  at 
all.  The  thought  flashed  upon  me  that  nothing  in  exist 
ence  could  destroy  my  soul.  I  was  becoming  dazed, 
everything  was  vanishing.  The  waves  and  mist  were 
turning  into  some  sort  of  light  that  I've  never  seen  save 
in  dreams.  Just  then  I  heard  your  voice  shouting  to 
me.  That  call  seemed  to  bring  me  back  to  my  body." 

"So  you  believe  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul?"  Crof 
ton  asked,  deeply  interested  in  the  psychic  phase  of  his 
friend's  experience. 

"Without  a  doubt,"  Socrates  answered.  "One  minute 
more  and  I  am  sure  I  should  have  been  experiencing  some 
thing — a  transcendental  something  which  no  one  in  the 
flesh  has  ever  experienced,  or  can  experience," 

381 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"At  that  particular  moment  did  your  whole  life  flash 
before  you,  as  so  many  have  claimed  as  their  experience?" 
Crofton  inquired. 

"No;  I  thought  of  nothing  I  had  ever  seen,  done,  or 
fancied  before.  Really  I  seemed  to  be  quite  myself,  and 
yet  to  be  on  the  verge  of  becoming  a  greater,  wiser  per 
sonality.  I  can't  explain  it.  I  feel  what  I  want  to  say, 
but  I  can't — I  can't  express  it  in  words.  I  seemed  almost 
to  be  merging  into  God,  who  was  not  a  person,  but  a  vast, 
indescribable,  ecstatic  principle.  It  all  seemed  to  lie 
out  before  me  where  that  strange,  supernal  light  was  grow 
ing  brighter.  It  seemed  to  be  drawing  me  toward  it,  in 
to  it.  I  felt— I  felt—  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt.  But 
I'm  happy  to-night.  I  am  glad  you  saved  me.  Oh,  I'm 
so  happy  over  my  poems !  It  seems  too  good  to  be  true. 
You  did  it;  you  did  it;  and  you  saved  my  life  to  tell  me 
of  it." 

"You  said  that  you  intended  to  tell  your  mother  about 
the  first  acceptance.  Did  you?"  Crofton  asked. 

"Yes,"  Socrates  smiled,  "but  not  till  we  were  seated 
that  night  at  dinner  in  the  corner  of  the  little  cafe  where 
we  often  go.  Then  suddenly  I  showed  her  the  check  and 
the  editor's  letter.  I  have  never  seen  her  so  surprised 
and  happy  in  my  life.  She  read  the  letter  a  dozen  times, 
and  asked  me  scores  of  questions.  But  women  are  strange, 
strange  creatures,  aren't  they?" 

"In  what  particular  way?"  Crofton  asked. 

"Oh,  in  many  intricate  ways,"  Socrates  answered, 
suddenly  grown  thoughtful.  "One  can  never  wholly 
understand  them  or  get  their  peculiar  point  of  view.  My 
mother  was  always  rather  non-communicative,  but  the 
other  night  she  mystified  me  more  than  ever.  To  be 
frank,  I  was  almost  alarmed.  I  couldn't  understand  her, 
and  I  could  not  get  her  to  explain.  She  would  not  answer 
direct  questions.  One  thing  that  puzzled  me  was  this:  she 
had  said  that  she  must  positively  get  away  from  the  caf£ 

382  ' 


THE   INNER   LAW 

by  eight  o'clock  to  be  with  a  patient  who  was  quite  ill. 
She  had  mentioned  it  two  or  three  times,  and  had  been 
looking  at  her  watch  and  even  urging  the  waiter  not  to 
delay  our  dinner,  when  all  at  once  she  seemed  to  forget 
her  appointment.  Eight  o'clock  came  and  passed,  and 
she  had  not  finished  her  dinner — she  had  scarcely  touched 
it,  although  she  had  said  she  was  hungry.  I  reminded 
her  of  her  engagement,  but  she  would  not  even  talk  about 
it.  She  was  strangely  agitated.  She  seemed  even  to  for 
get  my  success,  which  had  pleased  her  so  much  at  first." 

"You  speak  of  your  mother  having  a  patient,'"  Crofton 
said.  "I  thought  she  was  in  some  sort  of  business." 

"She  is  a  private  nurse,"  Socrates  informed  him.  "She 
has  been  wonderfully  successful.  I  really  was  alarmed 
that  night,  and  began  to  wonder  if  her  mind  was  de 
ranged,  for  I  saw  no  rational  reason  for  her  failing  to  keep 
an  appointment  which  she  had  said  was  so  important. 
We  finally  went  to  a  telephone  and  she  called  up  the 
doctor,  who  was  then  at  the  house  to  which  she  was  to 
go.  I  could  tell  by  her  voice  that  she  was  excited  to  the 
point  of  hysteria.  I  heard  her  tell  the  doctor  that  she 
was  not  feeling  well  enough  to  come,  and  ask  if  he 
could  send  a  taxicab  for  another  nurse.  He  answered 
that  he  could  without  any  serious  consequences  to  the 
patient,  and  we  walked  home.  She  said  the  walk  would 
do  her  good.  I  told  her  I  was  worried  over  the  way  she 
was  acting,  but  she  made  no  reply,  and  that  was  odd, 
too — it  was  not  like  her.  She  had  taken  my  arm,  and  I 
felt  her  hand  trembling." 

"It  was  certainly  very  odd,"  Crofton  observed.  "Did 
you  finally  discover  what  had  so  disturbed  her?" 

"Not  absolutely,"  the  boy  said,  a  touch  of  restraint  in 
his  tone.  "The  truth  is,  she  is  becoming  as  great  a 
mystery  to  me  as  she  was  before — before  I  learned  that 
sad  secret  of  hers,  and  which  she  doesn't  yet  dream  that 
I  am  aware  of.  She  gave  me  no  satisfaction  that  eve- 

383 


THE   INNER   LAW 

ning.  I  was  forced  to  surmise  one  thing  only,  and  I  hesi 
tate  to  tell  you  about  it — you  in  particular,  of  all  persons." 

"Me?    Do  you  really  mean  that?"  Crofton  groped. 

"  Yes,  it  seems  wrong  to  say  it  of  a  woman  who  has  so 
strong  a  character  as  my  mother  has,  but  I  can  account 
for  her  mood  in  no  other  way  than  that  she  is  jealous.  I 
did  not  know  she  was  that  way,  but  it  must  be  that.  I 
can't  explain  it  otherwise." 

"Jealous  of  whom?"  Crofton  wanted  to  know. 

"Of  you"  Socrates  replied,  with  a  faint  smile  and  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  am 
forced  to  think  that  your  friendship  and  mine  has  actually 
made  her  jealous." 

"Our  friendship?"  Crofton  exclaimed.  "Why,  aren't 
you  mistaken?" 

"I  don't  think  I  can  be,  for  her  whole  agitation  began 
when  she  asked  me  who  the  friend  was  to  whom  the  editor 
referred  as  having  forwarded  my  poem.  I  told  her  how 
you  and  I  had  accidentally  met,  and  how  often  we  had 
been  together.  Yes,  she  must  be  jealous,  and  to  an  ab 
normal  degree.  I  didn't  dare  tell  her  actually  how  much 
I  think  of  you,  and  even  now  that  you  have  saved  my  life 
and  helped  me  with  my  other  poems  I  may  not  be  able 
to  tell  her  of  it.  She  acted  queerly — queerly!  She  ac 
tually  spoke — and  it  seemed  to  me  anxiously — of  our  tak 
ing  a  trip  to  Europe  at  once,  and  begged  me  not  to  let  any 
one  know  of  it — said  she  had  reasons  which  she  could  not 
tell  me  quite  yet." 

"She  must  be  a  very  strange  woman,"  Crofton  said, 
regretfully.  "I  am  sorry  she  feels  as  she  does,  for  I  am 
very  fond  of  you  and  like  your  companionship." 

"And  I  yours."  Socrates  leaned  on  the  railing,  looked 
out  over  the  restless  water,  and  sighed.  "You  have  be 
come  almost  everything  to  me.  You  are  doing  so  much 
for  me,  and  I  am  doing  nothing  in  return.  She  must  not 
part  us.  She  will  feel  differently  when  she  meets  you." 

384 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"She  might  even  object  to  meeting  me,"  Crofton  sug 
gested,  gloomily. 

Socrates  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then:  "There  is 
no  telling  what  she  will  think  or  do  if  her  mood  doesn't 
change.  She  clung  to  me  in  the  hallway  of  her  boarding- 
house  that  evening  and  sobbed  in  my  arms  like  a  des 
perate,  broken-hearted  child.  I  finally  left  her,  but  I  am 
quite  upset  over  it.  You  see,  I  did  not  really  know 
what  to  do  or  say.  I  have  had  a  letter  from  her  every 
day  since  then,  and  they  are  not  like  her — they  seem 
nervous,  unnatural,  and  pointless." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Myers  came  up  the  stairs  to 
remove  the  tray  of  dishes,  paused  in  the  doorway,  and 
glanced  out  at  them.  She  smiled.  "That  little  chap  is 
asleep  at  last,"  she  said.  "He  seemed  too  nervous  to 
quiet  down  at  first.  My  husband  came  back  just  now 
in  a  boat  which  one  of  our  customers  wanted  him  to  sell 
for  him  at  half  price.  The  boy  heard  him  speak  to  me 
about  it  and  insisted  on  going  out  to  look  at  it,  weak  as 
he  was." 

"I  see,"  Crofton  laughed,  "he  has  not  forgotten  my 
promise,  and  is  already  looking  the  market  over." 

"I  think  that  is  it,"  Mrs.  Myers  smiled;  "but  when 
he  heard  that  the  price  was  twenty  dollars,  and  saw 
what  a  fine  boat  it  was,  he  gave  it  up.  '  Gee !'  he  said, 
'  the  guy  that  pulled  us  out  o'  the  water  ain't  no  Rocky- 
feller.'" 

Crofton  laughed.  "Well,  he  shall  have  the  boat,  any 
way.  Tell  your  husband  I'll  take  it  and  will  settle  for 
it  in  the  morning.  You  may  tell  the  boy,  too,  that  I'll 
give  him  the  money  to  buy  the  other  things." 

"Really?  Really?"  Mrs.  Myers  cried  in  delight.  "If 
he  knew  it  now  he  would  not  sleep  a  wink  to-night. 
Well,  I'll  tell  him  in  the  morning." 

When  they  were  alone,  a  moment  later,  Socrates  glanced 
at  Crofton,  and  observed:  "Sometimes  I  fancy  that  you 

25  385 


THE    INNER   LAW 

are  not  as  poor  as  I  at  first  thought;    you  are  always 
spending  money  on  others." 

"Well,  I  have  more  means  than  I  was  willing  to  admit 
when  I  first  met  you,"  was  the  answer,  "but  I  don't 
want  to  keep  anything  from  you  now.  I  want  you  to 
know  me  as  I  am.  I  am  in  comfortable  circumstances 
financially.  I  have  a  strong  premonition  that  we  are 
not  going  to  see  much  more  of  each  other.  If  our  friend 
ship  worries  your  mother  it  must  not  go  on.  She  has  been 
all  the  world  to  you,  and  you  are  all  she  has." 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you  and  me,"  the  youth  said, 
rebelliously.  "It  is  only  a  whim  of  hers.  I  don't  know 
how  I  could  get  along  without  you.  I  can't  explain  it. 
I  love  to  be  with  you  as  much  as  with  my  mother.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  have  known  you  from  babyhood  up. 
Why,  really,  half  the  joy  I  have  in  succeeding  with  my 
poems  comes  out  of  my  desire  to  please  you." 

Crofton  was  deeply  touched.  He  stood  smoking  in  si 
lence.  There  was  a  break  in  the  filmy  clouds,  and  the 
moon,  a  great  round  white  lantern,  lit  the  surface  of  the 
river,  bringing  the  long,  dim  outlines  of  the  Palisades 
into  view. 

Presently  Crofton  said:  "You  are  tired;  perhaps  we 
had  better  go  to  bed." 

Socrates  nodded  acquiescence,  and  they  went  to  their 
room.  A  cot  and  a  bed  were  ready  for  them,  both  having 
fresh  sheets  and  pillows,  and  looking  very  inviting. 

"I'll  take  the  cot,"  the  youth  said,  quickly;  and  Crof 
ton  knew  that  it  was  out  of  courtesy  to  his  age  that  he 
spoke.  "I've  slept  on  one  all  this  summer,  and  I'd  not 
feel  at  home  in  a  bed,  while  you  are  accustomed  to  one." 

They  undressed,  and  Crofton  noticed  the  bare  right  arm 
of  his  companion.  It  was  black  and  blue  from  bruises, 
badly  swollen,  and  he  went  to  examine  it. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  it  was  like  this?"  he  asked. 
"How  did  it  happen?" 

386 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"That  blasted  canoe,"  Socrates  said,  indifferently. 
"It  is  a  wonder  the  blame  thing  was  not  cut  to  the  bone." 

"You  must  put  something  on  it,"  Crofton  said,  con 
siderately.  "Let  me  ask  Mrs.  Myers — " 

"Bosh!  Rubbish!  It  is  nothing  at  all!"  the  boy 
sniffed.  "The  swelling  will  go  down  by  to-morrow.  I'll 
not  do  any  rowing  or  swimming  for  a  day  or  two,  that 
is  all." 

"You  have  a  lot  of  nerve,"  Crofton  said,  as  he  went 
back  to  his  bed.  "I'm  afraid  your  arm  will  pain  you  in 
the  night." 

"Oh,  it  may,  a  little  bit,"  Socrates  lightly  returned; 
" but  that's  nothing.  Shall  I  blow  out  the  light?" 

"If  you  are  ready,"  Crofton  answered,  admiring  the 
perfect  physique  of  his  companion  as  he  walked  to  the 
lamp  and  extinguished  it.  "Good  night,"  Crofton  said. 
"If  your  arm  pains  let  me  know." 

"Thank  you.    I  will.     Good  night." 


CHAPTER  XV 

/^ROFTON  lay  with  his  eyes  on  the  moonlight  which 
^^  fell  in  at  the  window  upon  the  rough  floor.  How 
strange  it  was!  he  thought.  His  boyhood  was  flowing 
back  upon  him  in  a  constant  stream  of  scenes,  incidents, 
and  sayings.  The  room  seemed  to  be  the  one  in  the  old 
home  in  which  he  and  Henry  had  slept  as  boys.  One 
circumstance  he  remembered  now  for  the  first  time  in 
years.  Henry  had  come  in  after  midnight  and  waked 
him  as  he  clumsily  undressed.  Half  an  hour  passed. 
Henry  was  breathing  heavily  and,  it  seemed  to  his  imagi 
native  brother,  with  difficulty.  Carter  rose,  went  to  him 
and  spoke,  but  received  no  reply.  He  shook  the  sleeper, 
but  could  not  wake  him.  Alarmed,  he  went  to  his 
father's  room  across  the  hall  and  roused  the  old  man  from 
sleep.  Gilbert  entered  the  room,  bent  over  his  sleeping 
son,  roughly  turned  his  face  to  him,  and  with  an  angry 
grunt  moved  away.  "Drunk!"  he  said.  "Can't  you 
smell  it  on  him?" 

That  was  away  back  in  Henry's  youth,  and  now  Henry, 
who,  somehow,  was  dearer  than  ever  before,  was  dead. 
He  had  lived  his  mistaken  career  out,  and  was  now  mere 
food  for  worms  back  there  in  the  blue  Georgian  hills. 
The  remains  of  young  Tom  Crofton — jovial,  prank-playing 
Tom — were  there,  too,  and  those  of  his  father,  who  had 
erred,  suffered  in  consequence,  and  yearned  so  much  for 
peace  of  soul.  What  could  it  all  mean?  To  what  was  it 
tending — if  to  anything?  The  swash  of  the  river's  flow 
against  the  float  and  the  piles  which  supported  the  house, 

388 


THE   INNER   LAW 

the  tugging  of  rocking  boats  on  their  painters  outside, 
was  the  sole  answer.  An  hour  passed.  Crofton  could 
not  sleep,  and  heard  the  creaking  of  the  cot  of  his  com 
panion,  who  was  constantly  turning  over. 

"You  are  not  asleep  yet,"  he  said,  suddenly. 

' '  Nor  you ,  either, ' '  Socrates  laughed,  evasively.  ' '  I  hope 
I  am  not  disturbing  you." 

* '  Not  at  all, "  Crofton  answered.  ' '  But  I 'm  afraid  your 
arm  is  paining  you  more  than  you  will  acknowledge." 

"No,  it  is  not  my  arm,"  was  the  answer.  "It  doesn't 
hurt  much  now,  but  somehow  I  can't  get  down  to  sleep. 
I  was  that  way  after  a  long-distance  swim  once.  My 
nerves  were  strung  high  this  afternoon;  besides — besides, 
you  know,  there  is  something  in  thought-transference. 
I  have  read  your  mind  often,  you  remember,  and  to-night 
— I  may  be  wrong — but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are 
unusually  sad — depressed,  unhappy." 

Crofton  found  himself  unable  to  formulate  a  denial 
that  would  be  satisfactory  to  himself,  so  he  said  nothing, 
but  simply  lay  still,  his  eyes  now  on  the  boy's  dim  form. 

"Of  late,"  Socrates  went  on,  sympathetically,  "it  has 
seemed  to  me  that  you  have  met  with  some  new  and 
particular  disappointment.  I  have  seemed  to  read  it  in 
your  face  and  detect  it  in  your  voice.  I  wish  I  were 
worthy  of  your  entire  confidence.  I  think  I  have  told 
you  all  about  myself,  but  I  feel  that  you  have  kept  some 
things  from  me.  I  would  not  say  this,  but  something  tells 
me — it  is  almost  like  the  strange,  psychic  voice  I've  heard 
once  or  twice  in  my  life — something  keeps  telling  me  that 
I,  young  as  I  am,  could  help  you — actually  help  you. 
God  knows  I'd  like  to  if  you  need  me  in  any  way." 

"Nobody  on  earth  can  help  me!"  Crofton  suddenly 
blurted  out.  "This  much  I  will  say,  and  then  we  will 
drop  the  subject  for  ever.  I  wouldn't  confess  it  to  one 
so  young,  but  for  the  hope  that  it  may  prevent  you  from 
making  my  mistake  —  that  my  terrible,  lifelong  remorse 

389 


THE    INNER   LAW 

may  be  a  helpful  warning  to  you.  My  boy,  the  man  you 
look  upon  as  a  friend  worthy  of  friendship  is  not  worthy 
of  the  friendship  of  an  outcast  dog.  Listen.  When  I 
was  about  your  age — when  I  was  as  full  of  high,  pure 
aspirations  as  you  now  are,  I  sank  to  the  very  depths  of 
human  depravity.  I  was  carried  away  by  passion.  I 
wrecked  the  life  of  the  sweetest,  loveliest  girl  ever  created. 
She  has  since  fought  her  way  to  the  top,  while  in  idleness, 
frivolity,  pride,  and  vanity  I  was  dragged  down  to  what 
I  am.  I  met  her  recently,  after  a  separation  of  over 
twenty  years.  I  now  want  her  and  need  her  more  than 
I  want  and  need  life  itself.  I  want  to  care  for  her  and  our 
son  whom  I  have  never  seen,  but  it  is  impossible.  She 
has  shown  me  that  it  is  impossible.  After  losing  her,  I 
began  to  lean  on  you  for  companionship,  only  to  find 
now  that  even  that  is  denied  me.  I'm  not  complaining. 
I  deserve  it  all.  At  times,  among  poor,  simple  people 
here  in  the  city,  and  with  your  friends  across  the  river, 
I  am  able  to  forget  myself  in  their  honest,  untroubled 
lives;  but  to-night  I  am  face  to  face  with  my  wretched 
self  as  I  never  was  before.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
rising  to  better  things  in  your  wonderful  career,  in  living 
a  new  life  in  you  and  the  triumphs  which  are  before  you, 
but  that,  too,  you  see,  must  end.  I  have  sinned  too  long 
and  too  grievously.  God  is  laughing  at  me — fool  that  I 
am — for  hoping  to  find  peace  through  the  wronged  son  of 
another  man,  while  I'm  never  to  see  my  own  face  to  face." 

Silently,  and  in  awe,  the  youth  put  his  feet  down  on  the 
floor,  sat  up,  and  then  came  across  to  the  bed.  He  seemed 
checked  by  embarrassment  for  a  moment,  and  then  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"Oh,  how  it  pains  me  to  hear  you  say  this!"  he  faltered. 
4 'For  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  Somehow  I  feel  to-night 
as  if  I  can  never  be  happy  myself  if  you  are  not — as  if 
all  the  world  will  be  wrong  if  you  are  made  to  suffer 
longer." 

390 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"You  are  very,  very  kind,"  Crofton  answered,  huskily. 
"I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  what  I  have — young  as 
you  are — but  it  slipped  out  before  I  thought.'* 

"Perhaps  you  have  not  wronged  your  son  and  his 
mother  so  much  as  you  fear,"  Socrates  went  on  in  a  brave, 
boyish  effort  at  giving  comfort.  "I  once  thought  I  was 
wronged  by  my  absent  father,  too;  but  since  this  great  joy 
in  the  success  of  my  poems  and  your  friendship  have  come 
to  me,  I  have  begun  to  feel  that  the  very  shadows  of  my 
life  were  cast  by  the  hand  of  God.  I  once  thought  I'd 
actually  want  to  kill  my  father  if  I  met  him,  but  now — 
now  it  is  different — oh,  so  different !  I've  come  to  under 
stand — to  see — that  what  seems  to  us  mortals  to  be  the 
worst  in  life  is  really  the  best.  My  poor,  young  fether  was 
not  wholly  accountable.  His  life  and  lines  were  laid  upon 
him  while  he  was  ignorant  of  the  law.  My  mother,  an 
unsuspecting  girl,  received  her  burden  on  young  and  ten 
der  shoulders.  Mine  fell  to  me  in  the  cradle.  You  have 
yours — we  are  all  alike,  and  we  are  all  the  loved  children 
of  God  being  led  onward  and  upward  in  ways  we  cannot 
understand." 

"Do  you  think  that — do  you — do  you?"  Crof ton's 
voice  filled  to  overflowing  and  broke.  "And  could  you 
actually  forgive  your  father?" 

"Yes,  easily  now.  I'd  like  to  see  him.  I'd  like  to  com 
fort  him  if  he  needs  it,  and  if  he  is  living  he  will  need  it 
sooner  of  later,  for  repentance  is  demanded  by  the  law. 
But  you  and  I  must  not  part.  It  can't  be — it  sha'rit  be! 
Lying  there  unable  to  sleep,  just  now,  another  possible 
explanation  of  my  mother's  strange  attitude  flashed  upon 
me." 

"What  is  it?"  Crofton  inquired,  eagerly. 

"Why,  it  may  be  this.  See  if  you  don't  think  so.  You 
see,  as  I  told  you,  she  still  thinks  I  am  ignorant  of  the 
true  facts  of  my  birth,  and  morbidly  dreads  my  discovering 
them.  May  it  not  be  that  she  is  now  afraid  that  the 


THE   INNER   LAW 

publication  of  my  poems  may,  in  some  way,  bring  me 
to  a  realization  of  the  truth?" 

Crofton  sat  up.  "It  may  be  so,"  he  said.  "In  fact, 
that  seems  more  likely  to  me  than  your  first  supposition. 
No  natural  mother  could  object  to  her  son's  having  a 
genuine  and  sincere  friend.  Let's  hope  it  is  that,  and 
yet  I  cannot  see  any  reason  for  her  being  quite  so  greatly 
disturbed.  I  think  you  said  she  was  a  private  nurse. 
The  unfortunate  mother  of  my  son  took  up  that  Calling, 
and—" 

Here  Crofton  stopped  short,  stared  through  the  dim 
light  at  the  profile  by  his  side — the  profile  which  had  so 
often  suggested  that  of  his  cousin  Tom.  He  looked  down 
at  the  long,  slender  hands  of  his  companion.  The  fingers 
and  the  curving  nails  were  like  Tom's  and  like  his  own. 
"A  private  nurse!"  he  said  to  himself;  "a  private  nurse 
with  a  nameless  son  who  has  the  features  of  a  Crofton! 
My  God,  my  God!" 

"I  am  sure  you  want  to  sleep  now,"  Socrates  said, 
starting  to  rise.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  older  man's 
arm  and  gently  pressed  it. 

"Wait,  wait!"  Crofton  gulped,  the  room,  his  com 
panion,  and  all  visible  objects  seeming  to  whirl  about  him. 

The  youth  paused,  standing  erect  by  the  bed.  "What 
is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  this — this — "  Crof ton's  voice  caught  in  his 
throat.  "You  have  often  spoken  of  your  grandmother, 
who  died  when  you  were  young.  Was — was  she  the 
mother  of  your  father  or  of  your  mother?" 

"My  mother's  mother,"  was  the  answer. 

"Your  mother's  mother?  Are  you  sure,  absolutely 
sure?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  am!" 

There  was  silence.  The  youth  paused  a  moment  longer, 
and  then  started  back  to  his  cot.  "I'm  keeping  you 
awake,"  he  said.  "I  ought  to  go  out  on  the  float  and 

392 


THE   INNER   LAW 

walk  off  my  restlessness.  What  you  have  told  me  about 
my  poems  and  all  that  excitement  in  the  river  is  robbing 
me  of  sleep.  Really/'  he  laughed,  "I'm  too  happy  to 
sleep!" 

"You  have  never  told  me  where  you  were  born,"  Crof- 
ton  said,  irrelevantly  and  with  suspended  breath. 

"In  New  Orleans,  but  I  remember  nothing  of  the 
place,  for  we  left  it  when  I  was  less  than  a  year  old." 

"New  Orleans!  New  Orleans!  What  was  your  mother's 
maiden  name?" 

"Romley— Lydia  Romley." 

"Lydia  Romely!"  The  name  struggled  for  birth  in 
Crofton's  tight  throat,  and  died  there.  The  youth  went 
on  to  his  cot  and  sat  down.  Crofton  still  sat  erect, 
staring  with  fixed  eyes,  his  lips  parted.  "My  God!"  he 
whispered.  "My  boy!  my  son!  my  own  son!" 

"Gee!  my  muscles  really  do  ache  a  little!"  Socrates 
was  softly  laughing;  "but  I  sha'n't  disturb  you  any  more 
to-night.  I'll  lie  still  from  now  on." 

Crofton  heard  nothing  of  what  he  was  saying.  The 
sound  seemed  a  meaningless  voice  muttering  out  of  chaos. 
The  bell  of  a  passing  steamer  rang.  Its  yellow  light 
flashed  into  the  white  light  of  the  moon  on  the  floor  and 
walls.  Crofton  sank  back  on  his  pillow  and  tried  to 
think — tried  to  pray — but  he  could  do  neither.  His  brain 
was  lashed  by  threats,  forebodings,  warnings,  dire  mem 
ories. 

"Merciful  God  help  me — guide  me!"  he  cried  within 
himself.  He  rose,  stood  out  in  the  floor,  and  went  to 
the  window  which  overlooked  the  river.  It  was  now  a 
broad,  dancing  sheet  of  reflected  moonlight.  He  re 
mained  there  in  limp,  reeling  silence  for  a  moment;  then 
the  creaking  of  the  cot  drew  his  eyes  to  his  son,  who  was 
lying  on  his  side,  looking  at  him  wonderingly. 

"God  help  me!  Oh,  God  help  me!"  Crofton  prayed 
anew,  and  then,  obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  he  moved 

393 


THE    INNER    LAW 

slowly  to  the  youth  and  stood  before  him.  He  started 
to  speak,  but  the  words  he  was  trying  to  summon  to  his 
aid  refused  to  fall  into  proper  order,  and  he  simply  stood 
over  his  son,  his  desperate  gaze  on  the  placid  young  face. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  the  boy  asked. 

Again  Crofton  started  to  speak,  but  failed,  and,  as  a 
child  might  have  done,  he  bowed  his  head  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  His  bosom  was  wrung  and 
shaken  by  a  sob  which  he  was  trying  to  suppress,  and 
this  the  youth  noticed. 

"I  see  you  are  even  more  unhappy  than  I  thought," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  pained  sympathy.  "I  wish  I  could 
help  you.  I'd  give  anything  on  earth  to  be  able  to  do  it. 
I  would — I  would!" 

"You  are  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  can  help  me," 
Crofton  said,  huskily.  "You,  you,  and  no  one  else!" 

"I?    I?    Then  show  me  how;   please  show  me  how." 

Crofton  threw  all  discretion  aside.  He  forgot  the  plans 
of  the  boy's  mother.  He  forgot  everything  but  his  yearn 
ing  love  for  the  lad  on  the  cot  and  his  raging  desire  for 
forgiveness. 

"My  boy,  my  boy,"  he  gulped,  folding  his  arms  and 
standing  erect,  as  a  brave  soldier  might  to  be  shot  under 
the  sentence  of  a  court  martial,  "  I  have  just  made  a  great 
discovery.  It  may  pain  you — it  may  stab  you  to  the 
heart — it  may  make  you  despise  me  and  desert  me  for 
ever — but  I  am  your  father,  your  own  father!" 

* '  My  father? ' '  The  youth  gasped  incredulously.  * '  My 
father?" 

"Your  father.  Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  my  son!  Pity 
me !  Have  mercy  on  me !' ' 

In  the  dim  light  he  saw  the  boy's  animated,  soulful 
face  become  rigid  and  pale;  the  lips  were  set,  the  brows 
contracted.  Crofton's  chin  touched  his  breast,  his  eyes 
were  closed.  Remembering  something  the  boy  had  once 
said,  he  pictured  him  in  the  act  of  springing  at  his  throat 

394 


THE    INNER   LAW 

and  clutching  it  with  his  long,  slender  fingers.  But  as  he 
stood  thus,  self-blinded,  he  became  conscious  that  his 
son  had  not  moved.  He  opened  his  eyes.  The  boy  sat 
bent  downward,  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was  crying, 
his  young  shoulders  shaken  by  the  tumult  within  him. 
Crofton  suddenly  knelt  beside  him  and  put  a  pleading 
hand  on  the  boy's  knee. 

"  My  fate  lies  with  you,  my  son,"  he  muttered.  ' '  With 
out  knowing  what  you  were  to  me  by  blood,  I  have  loved 
you  as  a  son.  You  have  inspired  me;  you  have  given 
me  faith.  I  have  often  thought  you  were  Godlike;  be 
Godlike  in  your  mercy  to-night.  Forgive  me,  as  your 
mother  has  forgiven  me,  and  let  me  spend  the  remainder 
of  my  wretched  life  in  your  service  and  hers.  I  owe  my 
all  to  you  both,  and  I  want  to  pay.  I  love  you — my  son, 
my  son — my  poor  wronged  son!  My  life,  as  it  is,  will  not 
be  enough,  but  let  me  give  that  to  you  and  to  her." 

The  boy  was  sobbing  unrestrainedly  now.  He  tried 
to  speak,  but  could  not,  and,  shamed  by  his  weakness,  he 
fell  back  and  buried  his  face  in  his  pillow.  Crofton  rose 
and  crept  back  to  his  bed,  where  he  sat  still  and  wordless, 
at  the  end  of  his  resources.  It  may  have  been  his  silence 
that  helped  restore  the  youth  to  calmness,  for  he  sat  up, 
wiped  his  eyes,  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  faltered: 

"You  mustn't  mind  me — you  mustn't  misunderstand. 
I'm  not  disappointed.  I'm  not  grieved;  I'm  only  sur 
prised;  it  is  all  so  new — so  unexpected!"  He  stood  up 
and  came  toward  the  bed.  "So  you  are  my  father,  you, 
you  of  all  men  on  earth?  I've  always  dreaded  meeting 
him — seeing  him,  fearing  that  I'd  hate  him  alone  of  all 
men  in  the  world,  and  yet  here  to-night  I  know  that  I 
love  him  as  much  as  a  son  ever  loved  a  father.  It  is  not 
for  you  to  help  me;  it  is  for  me  to  help  you,  and  I  will, 
I  will.  I'm  happy  to-night — happier  than  I  ever  thought 
a  mortal  could  be  on  earth.  I  now  have  everything — 
everything  that  I  wanted." 

395 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"Oh,  I've  wronged  you — wronged  you!"  Crofton 
moaned.  "I  can't  give  you  a  name  except  by  law,  when 
I'm  willing  to  give  you  my  very  soul." 

"What  is  a  name?"  the  boy  half  laughed,  half  sobbed. 
"  I  don't  believe  there  are  any  names  in  Eternity,  and  this 
life,  at  its  best,  is  only  the  crudest  beginning  of  the  life 
ahead  of  us.  I'm  happy,  happy,  inexpressibly  happy 
to-night!" 

Crofton  rose  and  took  him  into  his  arms  and  pressed 
him  to  his  breast.  After  that  they  said  nothing  more — 
not  another  word.  Crofton  went  back  to  his  bed,  and  his 
son  to  his  cot. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  next  morning  Crofton  called  at  the  boarding- 
house  where  Lydia  was  staying  and  sent  in  his  card. 
A  maid-servant  invited  him  into  a  little  parlor  in  the  rear, 
and  he  waited  there  for  Lydia  to  come. 

"She  said  she  would  be  down  at  once,"  the  girl  an 
nounced,  a  moment  later. 

He  was  not  kept  waiting  long.  Lydia  was  already 
dressed  to  go  out,  and  hurried  down.  He  saw  that  she 
was  greatly  agitated  and  even  pale.  When  she  had  en 
tered  the  room  she  glanced  uneasily  back  into  the  hall 
way,  and  then  deliberately  closed  the  door.  She  turned 
her  back  to  the  window,  where  some  plants  were  growing, 
and  grimly  faced  him.  He  thought  it  significant  that  she 
had  not  offered  her  hand. 

"I  half  expected  you,"  she  began,  her  beautiful  lips 
trembling.  "I  have  been  crazy — insane!  I  haven't 
slept.  I  tried  to  find  you  to  warn  you,  but  could  not. 
Do  you  know — have  you  found  out?" 

"That  he  is  our  son?  Yes,  by  accident,  and  only  last 
night." 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  betray  me,"  Lydia  ran  on, 
desperately.  "He  happened  to  mention  meeting  you  and 
your  friendship  for  him.  I  was  overcome  with  fear  and 
despair,  and  yet  I  tried  to  hide  it  from  him.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  I'm  glad  you  came,  for  now  we  can  agree  on 
some  plan.  He  must  never  know  his  father  is  alive.  If 

397 


THE   INNER   LAW 

he  discovered  that  he  would  suspect  the  rest,  and  it  would 
break  his  heart  and  kill  his  courage.  Surely  you  know 
him  well  enough  to  know  how  such  a  thing  as  that  would 
sting  his  pride?" 

"Yes,  but  as  it  is— " 

"  Oh,  he  must  never  know !"  Lydia  broke  in,  desperately. 
"He  is  all  I  have.  I  have  lived  for  him  and  for  nothing 
else.  He  would  despise  me  for  my  weakness,  and  for  the 
part  I  have  played  in  deceiving  him  all  his  life.  He  doesn't 
dream — he  doesn't  suspect,  does  he?" 

Crofton  could  not  meet  the  fierce  stare  in  her  great, 
suffering  eyes.  He  looked  away  and  was  silent.  Her 
face  changed;  her  lips  parted;  she  came  toward  him 
swiftly;  she  laid  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  bore 
down  on  them  heavily. 

"You  can't  mean — my  God!  you  can't  mean — you 
surely  have  not  come  here  to  tell  me  that  you  have  let 
him  suspect — " 

Her  voice  failed  to  sustain  itself;  she  clutched  his  arms 
as  her  hands  slipped  downward,  and  then  she  shook  him. 

"Don't  dare  to  tell  me,"  she  caught  her  breath  and  ran 
on,  "that  you  have  thwarted  my  plans — stepped  into  my 
life  again  and  ruined  it?" 

"Wait,  wait!  For  God's  sake,  listen  to  me!"  he  cried, 
suddenly  remembering  something  he  had  come  to  reveal. 
"Lydia,  he  already  knew  the  truth.  He  has  known  it  for 
several  years  and  hidden  it  from  you.  He  overheard  you 
and  your  mother  talking  once  when  he  was  ill.  He  suf 
fered  under  the  discovery  for  a  long  time,  but  finally  rose 
above  it.  He  knew  all  but  the  name  of  his  father.  He 
confided  all  this  to  me  some  time  ago." 

"Oh,  oh !  is  it  possible?  My  poor  boy !  my  poor  darling 
boy!"  She  almost  fell  as  she  tottered  toward  a  chair, 
caught  hold  of  the  back,  swayed  a  moment,  and  then  sank 
into  it. 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,"  Crofton  pleaded,  hoarsely. 

398 


THE   INNER   LAW 

"He  is  happy  now,  he  says — happier  than  he  has  ever 
been.  He  loves  me,  Lydia;  he  has  forgiven  me.  Oh, 
Lydia,  I  love  him  with  all  my  wretched  soul!  You  and 
I  must  live  for  him  and  make  him  happy.  We  can  do 
it.  He  has  consented  to  my  adoption  of  him  as  a  son 
under  my  name.  He  and  you  shall  have  all  I  possess  in 
the  world.  You  shall  use  my  fortune  as  you  like.  You 
must  be  my  wife.  I  can't  live  without  you.  I  love  you 
— I  adore  you.  Well  go  to  California,  where  he  says 
you  wish  to  live.  Oh,  Lydia,  it  is  all  for  the  best!  He 
says  so,  and,  young  as  he  is,  he  is  as  wise  as  a  sage  of  old. 
Together  we'll  watch  his  growing  fame  and  nurse  his 
wonderful  genius.  He  is  going  to  have  the  thing  I  missed 
— a  successful  career.  Tell  me,  dear,  will  you  let  it  be 
so?" 

A  new  light  had  dawned  in  the  sweet  face  which  she 
raised  to  his;  her  long  lashes  glistened  with  tears;  a  pink 
glow  was  rising  into  her  pale  cheeks.  He  bent  down,  took 
her  into  his  arms,  and  held  her  to  his  breast ;  he  kissed  her 
pulsing  lips;  her  head  sank  to  his  shoulder;  she  clung  to 
him  tenderly  and  sobbed. 


THE   END 


THIS   BOOK   IS   DUE   ON   THE   LAST   DATE 
STAMPED   BELOW 


RENEWED   BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT   TO   IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-Series  458 


N9  826501 


Harben,  W.N. 
The   inner  law. 


PS1787 
15 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


